


Irenicon

by Yahtzee



Category: Alias
Genre: Alternate Canon, Apocalypse, Multi, One of My Favorites
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-29
Updated: 2009-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-05 10:34:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 137,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/40796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yahtzee/pseuds/Yahtzee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of her discovery at Wittenburg, Sydney's relationship with Jack is more strained than ever before. But as the stakes rise and Sloane's ultimate endgame is finally revealed, father and daughter unite to prevent devastation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "Irenicon" contains spoilers through the end of Alias Season Three, up to the episode "Resurrection," and deviates from canon there. Thanks muchly to my betas Synesthete, Amylud and Ruth!

_Prologue_

 

**Wittenburg, Germany**

 

"You were never supposed to see that."

Sydney stared at her father through hot tears. The files in her hands shook as she stared at him, though she could not have said if she was trembling from fear, or grief, or shock.

After a silence that seemed to last for hours, he stepped closer. He was clothed all in black, as though he were on a mission. Then again, Sydney now knew that he was on a mission, every second of every day. "You've – read them all."

"Yes." Sydney wasn't sure she'd seen everything, but she thought her father knew too many of her vulnerabilities already. "I've read how you've used me, and betrayed me, my whole life."

The day she was born, he had agreed to report on her: What she ate, how she slept, whom she knew, what she did. In the folders, his work was catalogued: completed years checked off, as if on a medical chart.

The details weren't included – those would be stored elsewhere, in the heart of the secret project he worked on. But Sydney knew the surveillance levels discussed, what they entailed. To fulfill these duties, her father would have copied her personal correspondence (did that include the diaries she'd kept in junior high?), monitored her conversations (phone taps? Bugs in her room?), and reported on everyone she interacted with. Somewhere, secret files invaded the privacy of Francie, Will, even Danny.

Her father had a stalker's knowledge of her whole life. All those years he hadn't bothered to talk to her – he'd been taking notes for someone else.

Her father closed his eyes, as though in the grip of pain. "Sydney, I can't claim that I haven't used you. That I haven't betrayed your trust. But I never –"

"Never. Never's a long time, Dad." The word Dad was heavy on her tongue. "You betrayed me before I was ever born."

He leaned forward; the dim lighting in the bank's vault cast shadows over his face, blackening his eyes into invisibility. "I knew you were important as soon as we found out we were expecting you. I knew that there would always be people who would want to manipulate you, or hurt you, or –"

"Manipulate me. Hurt me. Are you the only one who gets to do that?"

At last her father was silent. Sydney sensed he would say no more until she asked him a direct question. That had been her goal, but his compliance infuriated her. He should want to explain.

Brushing the auburn strands of her wig from her face, Sydney stood to face him. The high heels she was wearing brought her eyes almost even with his.

She would need to choose her questions carefully. Maybe their entire history was only a web of lies. But their final conversation should be worth something.

Important, he'd said. There was only one way that could be true. "You've always known about Rambaldi, haven't you?"

"Since my earliest days at the CIA -- that's why I was recruited. My blood work suggested a certain genetic pattern. Modern DNA mapping didn't exist then, but they could still draw certain inferences." Every word seemed to cost him; it pained him that much to tell her the simple truth.

"And -- Derevko –"

"Knew as well. That was why the KGB sent her here; they knew the CIA would take her into the Rambaldi program."

Sydney's stomach twisted, a slow wrench of nausea, before she could bring herself to say the next words. "And the two of you bred me."

"That is untrue." Her father's jaw tightened, and she recognized something like anger in his eyes.

"Why should I believe you?" She flung the files onto the table; the manila paper hissed against the wood. "I was a product of this project. I was supposed to be used for their purposes. You were willing to file reports on me from the day I was born, Dad. Or should I just call you Bristow and end the lie?"

That hurt him, and the knowledge flared inside, both painful and welcome. "The reports – Sydney, we knew you would be significant in Rambaldi's work, but we didn't know exactly how --"

"You knew I'd be important. You and your friend Bill Vaughn. Were you ever going to tell Vaughn that he was a part of this too?"

"Michael Vaughn was quickly eliminated from the program." He said it as though it were nothing, as though he were describing the marble floors of the vault. "His genetic type was entirely wrong."

"That's all that's ever mattered to you about any human being, isn't it? Their genetic code. Numbers on a sheet of paper."

"Sydney –"

"'Vaughn needs closure,' you said. You set him up as your assassin and claimed it was out of love for me." One of only three times he'd told her he loved her since she was a small child, and he had done it to make her an unwitting accomplice to murder. What lies had the other two times concealed? "You just needed Lauren dead to cover your own tracks."

The silence that followed her words was longer than the others, and his voice lower when he replied. "Both motivations were valid."

User. Manipulator. Liar. Sydney wanted to scream the words at him, her rage on Vaughn's behalf eclipsing her own. But she had to stay calm, to blink away the tears and keep her mind focused. The information she gouged from her father now would have to serve her and Vaughn for a very long time to come.

"Why did Lauren know this?" She forced herself to meet his eyes. The expression there – such a good imitation of pain and regret and love – stung her, but Sydney forced herself to endure it. "Why did my worst enemy know the truth while I was wrapped in lies?"

"Around the time your mother – left – several members of Project Christmas split away from the CIA. That splinter group went deep underground for many years. But eventually they resurfaced as the Covenant."

She stared at him. "The people who kidnapped me – who tortured me, and tried to turn me into a killer – you knew who they were? You knew all along?"

"I had leads. I tried to hunt them down, Sydney. To find the people I thought had killed you, I would have –"

"Done ANYTHING. I know. Anything but tell the CIA everything you knew. Or even tell Vaughn."

"What would Vaughn have done?"

The contempt in his voice pushed Sydney over an edge she hadn't realized was so close. She slapped her father with all her strength, so hard her arm hurt and her hand stung. His head jolted backward, but he didn't step away. "He would have looked for me! Because he loved me! Not because he wanted to use me for his own position and power in the agency."

"If you honestly think that I put my place at the CIA above you –"

"Stop right there. You don't get to tell me what to think. Not anymore."

He looked down at the folders – mostly, Sydney thought, to avoid her eyes. "You saw the information about Nadia, as well."

"Did you always know I had a sister? Did Mom tell you that she was trying to breed another child for the program, but leave out the part about Sloane?" She'd thought the image of her mother with Sloane would be no more repellent, but she'd been wrong.

"For many years, I've been tracking other children from Project Christmas, both those who received agent training and who did not." Agent training, Sydney supposed, meant the brainwashing of children. Her one fragile memory of assembling a gun for her approving father mocked her yet again. How had she managed to push it aside for so long? "Obviously, many of them were and are unknown to me. Allison Doren and Lauren Reed were two of those. Nadia Santos I learned about years ago, but I never suspected she was Irina's child with Arvin Sloane."

He sounded so hurt, as though he had a right to accuse anyone of betrayal. Sydney remembered how much she'd hated Sloane for strapping her sister, Nadia, to a gurney and injecting her with drugs. He'd experimented upon her, a violation Sydney had found revolting. Now, compared with her father, Sloane seemed the more merciful man of the two. At least he'd gotten his experiments over with quickly.

"Still, when we connected the dots – you knew who she was. You could have told me all about her. And you didn't."

"Do you remember the prophecy your beloved Vaughn relayed to you?" The sarcasm was coming out now; she should've known her father wouldn't be able to hide his hard, angry side for very long. "That you and Nadia are destined to battle, and that one of you will not survive? If I didn't want to expose you to that risk, I think you should appreciate the reasons why."

"Is that why you ordered her assassination?"

He froze. She hadn't known he could look that stricken, that shocked. It was good to know she could affect him that much. Sydney watched his face as he realized that she hadn't known, only suspected – and that he'd already betrayed the truth, caught out by her bluff. When he spoke, he said only, "Blind guess?"

"The guards you handpicked for her – they were a bunch of amateurs. So I always wondered how serious you were about keeping her safe. Then, before I came here, I tapped into our communications grid. I heard that she'd escaped. That was the word – 'escaped.' I knew somebody wasn't playing by the rules." Sydney was almost shaking with anger. "And even before I saw this, I figured it was you."

"I didn't want you to be hurt."

"So Nadia was somebody you could just kill in cold blood? You would have had my sister murdered and never told me why." And that, Sydney knew, was the core of it. The rest, baroque and twisted and manipulative though it was, was only the form her betrayal had taken. At its heart was this one fact: "You never wanted me to know the truth about anything in my life. You never wanted me to have anything honest – anything that belonged to me alone. You only gave me lies, so you could control me."

Her father visibly fought back an angry response – perhaps because that, too, would have been a kind of honesty. At last he said, "You were in no position to accept the truth."

"The truth would have let me have some control over my own life. The only pain you ever knew was the fear that you wouldn't be able to use me anymore." Sydney began restacking the files. "Well, that day has arrived. You're out of a job."

"Sydney –"

"I accept that you've done a lot of this with the agency's approval." Not Dixon, Sydney thought. Nor Marshall, and maybe not even Kendall. But there were shadowy figures in her world who had been behind her father all along. Watching her. Laughing at her ignorance, her powerlessness. "I accept that I'm still going to have to see you every day, until Vaughn and I can get a transfer. But you're never going to control me again. You're never even going to speak to me. It's over. The lie we've been has ended, forever."

He just stared at her, and it hit Sydney that he was beginning to look old. Only beginning – he was still strong, and tall, and his gaze sharp – but the wrinkles around his eyes were more pronounced, the drape of his neck unlike a younger man's. For the first time, she could see his infirmity and his death, and they comforted her. Someday, there would be a world without Jack Bristow – a world in which she might hope to breathe free.

Sydney turned to go, only to hear him say, "You have to leave the files."

"Have to? I don't think I have to do anything."

"Sydney, I can't let you leave with those files." Her father stepped forward, between her and the door.

Anger pushed the blood from her heart into her temples, her throat, her fists. "Or what? Are you going to stop me? Are you willing to hurt me? I know the answer to that one. You are. Well, go ahead. Try it."

He breathed in sharply, but his only response was, "If I don't take the files from you, someone else will."

Sydney threw the files to the floor, scattering them across the vault. "Scrape them up."

They weren't much – the last words she'd ever speak to her father – but they would have to do.

Their eyes met, and Sydney's traitorous memory flashed up image after image of times when things had been different: their embrace when he'd been released from jail, the Chinese food they'd eaten together at her apartment, a drive through the Indian countryside as they wore the silliest disguises imaginable. Thanksgiving night, and tears in his eyes as he'd promised that he would give her mother back to her if he could. A carousel in the park, and his smile as she rode by on a powder-blue pony, circling so fast it was like flying.

All lies.

He knelt down, silently picking up the files. Goodbye, she wanted to say, but it was more than he deserved.

Without another word, Sydney walked out of the vault, ignoring the tears in her eyes.

**

**outside Genga, Italy**

 

"The Sphere of Life."

Nadia could hear the reverence in her father's voice, even if she couldn't fully share it. The artifact he'd just pulled from a hole in a cave wall didn't look impressive; it was dull, bent metal, its soldering primitive, its shape imperfect. But none of that mattered compared to the joy in her father's eyes.

How she wanted to call him Papa, or Father, or even Daddy. But they weren't there just yet. "Are you sure this is it?"

"As sure as I have ever been." His smile lit up their dark surroundings – chandeliers of limestone, iridescent in the flashlight's beam -- and made her forget the dank, musty smell, the miles they'd walked. Between them stood a rough stone pedestal, clumsy and unfinished – unlike everything else Rambaldi had done in his life in its crudity and imprecision. Nadia held the flashlight so that it was squarely upon the Sphere of Life, trying to see more within it. "Thirty years' quest, Nadia. Three decades of hoping, and trying. And three years of searching for you. All of it has led me – has led us here."

"And this is Rambaldi himself? His spirit?" She couldn't quite imagine it – the essence of another human being caught in a small sphere of metal. But then, so much of Rambaldi's work defied her fragile imagination. The only time her mind could hold those visions was when she was deep in the thrall of the serum – when Rambaldi spoke through her, used her as his instrument. Even the memory of them, ill-formed and elusive as it was, made Nadia shiver in awe.

"His final instructions, for his last and greatest work." Her father put one hand on her shoulder, a small caress that warmed Nadia from skin to bone to heart. "Work you and I shall complete together."

"What must I do?"

"Very little, my dearest." The soft word seemed fully, entirely meant – no automatic endearment, but something spoken from a father to a daughter. For a moment, Nadia remembered the skinny little girl she had been in Buenos Aries, defiantly smearing dirt on her face and her one good dress. She had drunk water from a tin cup, and the rain had filled her battered shoes. All the deprivation had been worth it – her stubbornness, her hunger, the tears she'd cried on her cot during the night. It had all been a prelude to the wealth and splendor of her father's love, and of the mission they shared.

"Tell me," Nadia pleaded.

"I'll need a small sample of your blood," her father replied. "We can use your genetic code in ways the Sphere of Life will finally make clear. You've always been the key, Nadia. Always."

Nadia had known physical pain of one sort or another -- bullies' fists, the stabbing belly of hunger -- from childhood. The prick of a needle was as nothing, compared to that. Yet the idea of unraveling a secret from her very genes unnerved her.

For a moment she found herself remembering Sydney, as she had been when they'd met: drawn and pale, determined, sure that Sloane was up to no good. There were reasons for that, as her father had since confessed – sins he had committed in a time before he realized Nadia lived to know him and judge him. And even Sydney had been willing to work with Sloane, in order to find her, so she couldn't distrust him completely.

But blood – to give her blood –

Nadia remembered a needle in her arm, and agony that went beyond burning, perhaps beyond dying. Yes, it had been beautiful, a kind of transcendence Nadia had lnot dreamed the human heart could know. Yin and yang, black and white – the unity of all opposites, not in a ethereal, metaphorical way but as hard fact, pure truth: Nadia had glimpsed that and seen the beauty of it, and it was impossible to want anything more than to hold that truth in her hands.

But it had been painful, too, and her father had been the one to inflict that pain. Some purposes justified pain, but others did not. Beyond any doubt, Nadia knew that he felt his actions to be right. Would she agree?

Even her own yearning for love should not cloud her judgment.

"What will it do?" Nadia's whisper did not echo within the cave. She knew how to speak so that her words would not carry. "My genetic code – what will it reveal?"

Sloane looked up at her, his face illuminated by a light that had nothing to do with the torch she held; it was a fire deep within, and its warmth beckoned to her. Doubts, fears, Sydney's face – all of it slipped away into the mists.

He said only one word:

"Eternity."

 

**


	2. Chapter 2

_Your father's gone a-hunting  
He's deep in the forest so wild  
And he cannot take his wife with him  
He cannot take his child_

Your father's gone a-hunting   
In the quicksand and the clay  
And a woman cannot follow him  
Although she knows the way

Your father's gone a-hunting  
Through the silver and the glass  
Where only greed can enter  
But spirit, spirit cannot pass

Your father's gone a-hunting  
For the beast we'll never, cannot bind  
And he leaves a baby sleeping  
And his blessings all behind

Your father's gone a-hunting  
And he's lost his lucky charm  
And he's lost the guardian heart  
The keeps the hunter from the harm

Your father's gone a-hunting  
He asked me to say goodbye  
And he warned me not to stop him  
I wouldn't, I wouldn't even try

\--Leonard Cohen, "Hunter's Lullaby"

 

IRENICON: Book One

 

I.

 

**outside Genga, Italy**

 

"Sloane got here first."

Anna Espinosa muttered a curse under her breath and dropped her head, staring at the dirt beneath her feet as she tried to think of what to do next. K Directorate had suffered too many failures lately for them to suffer another gladly – and she had no intention of being the messenger who delivered this last, most fatal blow to their aspirations.

A shaft of sunlight pierced the rock overhead and flowed over the empty stone pedestal next to her. If she'd wanted, she could have put her hands in the hollowed-out place where the Sphere of Life had rested for centuries.

Hundreds upon hundreds of years, it had waited here. And if Anna's intel on Sloane's movements was correct, she had missed capturing it by only a few weeks.

"He can't have used it yet," she said, more to order her own thoughts than to converse with her companions. "If he had, we'd know."

"You want to track him," her guide said. His glower clearly indicated that this was more than he'd bargained for. Anna was good at renegotiating on short notice.

She let one hand rest on the butt of her gun, holstered at her waist. "You don't think you can do it?"

"That's not the question," the guide answered, but his eyes were on the gun. She'd won before she'd even started, which in Anna's opinion was the best way to go about it.

If she could find Sloane in time, then she could retrieve the Sphere of Life and salvage this mission yet. Or – the option had occurred to her before, but never so strongly – if Sloane was recruiting, this might be a good time to switch sides. A very good time.

"Photograph everything," Anna said, wiping the sweat from her forehead. Weren't caves supposed to be cool? This one was sweltering. "Take samples. We don't know what might be important later."

A few of the people around her began doing as they were ordered, but the guide kept staring at her. Anna expected him to resist, to argue –

\--but not to slump to the ground.

Frowning, Anna knelt by his side. "Heatstroke. Bring me some water."

Even as she held out her hand for the canteen, Anna began to doubt her diagnosis. The guide was shuddering, almost as if in the grip of a seizure; when she lay her hand upon the bared skin of his throat, it was searing – wild with fever.

Then again, maybe that was just the cave – so hot –

"Water!' Anna shouted, but nobody was listening. She watched in horror as one, then another of her companions began to fall to the ground around her. The sunlight had dimmed suddenly – no, it wasn't less light, but everything had become red –

The world tilted and spun, and Anna felt the ground beneath her back as though it had risen to meet her. As she tried to gasp in breath to scream, she felt her throat tightening. Air – she needed air –

Anna lifted her hands to her face, trying to pull away the unseen forces that gripped her neck. She couldn't feel anything, but it had to be there. The cave was vanishing in the reddish blur that surrounded her, and she could see nothing further away than her hands.

Tattooed at the base of her thumb were the angles and oval of Rambaldi's mark. It was the last thing she saw before she died.

 

II.

 

Vaughn stopped pacing the length of the interrogation room and leaned against the far wall. Harsh fluorescent light fell over him, the metal table, the increasingly thin lines of his captive's face.

"Lauren didn't die quickly, you know," Vaughn said. "Took her a while. Even with six bullets in her."

Sark's eyes never focused on Vaughn's face; he was looking past him. Looking through him. But Vaughn had no doubt that Sark was listening.

"Who thought she could be that strong? I didn't. When I swung a crowbar into her gut, she went down immediately." He mocked the swing; the physical memory was powerful enough to jerk his shoulders just at the moment the pretend crowbar struck her ghostly flesh.

Sark shifted slightly in his chair, but Vaughn couldn't be sure he was getting any reaction. It would be good to hurt Sark if he could. The son of a bitch deserved worse.

"I didn't even bother looking after her, at first. Six bullets – she wasn't going anywhere. There was plenty of time to make sure Sydney was all right. I kissed her on Lauren's grave."

Silence. Sark blinked once, but it was only a blink.

"Finally, we leaned over the edge of the pit Lauren fell into." Sydney had said that they had to be sure, and Vaughn was glad she'd insisted. That way, he hadn't missed a thing. "She was still alive. Trying to breathe. Blood all over her lips – you know how it bubbles up. You've seen it plenty of times."

Vaughn breathed in deeply, and it seemed to him that he could smell it: the dust, his sweat, the metallic thickness of blood in the air.

He remembered the closest he'd ever come to death – bleeding from the fingernails due to one of Irina Derevko's more diabolical innovations – and spoke with authority. "Sight is one of the first senses to go. You can feel pain and hear voices a long time after you can see. But Lauren – she could still see a little bit. Maybe she couldn't focus, but I knew she could tell it was me and Syd. Together again. Not that I think she'd get jealous, because she didn't give a fuck about anybody besides herself, except maybe her equally psychotic mother. But I'm glad she could see it, so she knew that she was a failure on top of everything else."

Her fingers had twitched, as though she was trying to move. Even her golden hair was laced with blood; she must have cut her scalp open during her tumble into the pit. Sydney had said that they should get a doctor. That Lauren could tell them more, and it was their responsibility to get the information if they could. He had said that it would do no good.

"I jumped down there." Dust rising from his boots. Lauren had flinched – maybe. Maybe she was only spasming, toward the end. Vaughn hoped she had flinched. "I knelt down by her and got right in her face. And when she started to go – that little choke in the throat, that rattle, you know what I mean? -- I whispered the last words she ever heard on this earth. I told her to enjoy hell."

Vaughn focused on Sark once more; he'd been lost in memory for a while. He pushed himself away from the wall and took a deep breath. No point in wasting any more time here. He'd already have to explain this meeting to his superiors, probably to Dr. Barnett, too. As interrogation, this was useless. Whatever they would get out of Sark would come later. This was just – preparation.

"She heard me, I'm sure," he said as he walked to the door. "Hearing's the last sense to go."

He slammed the door behind him, watching Sark through the one-way glass as he headed down the hall. Throughout the interview, Sark had never flinched once, and even now he sat statue-rigid. Hardly surprising – Lauren couldn't inspire anything resembling real emotion in anyone, much less a robot like Sark.

Didn't matter. The story was worth telling for its own sake.

**

"I was thinking maybe Washington," Sydney said.

"Hot summers," Vaughn said, on autopilot. He glanced down at his plate to remind himself what he was eating – gnocchi with pesto sauce. Shouldn't he compliment the dinner? "This is delicious."

"It was Francie's recipe." Syd's smile became faraway as she brushed her fingertip along the surface of her wineglass, lost in memory. "She made me memorize a few of them. Said I wouldn't know how to feed myself, if –"

When Sydney stared down at her plate, Vaughn quickly said, "D.C. would be interesting."

"Yeah. Exactly. I mean, how long are we going to spend running around after mystical artifacts? We should be involved in antiterrorism efforts – something that matters."

So she no longer thought Rambaldi mattered. Vaughn wondered whether, if he tried hard enough, he might be able to agree with her.

"We should put in for the transfer right away," he said. Escaping L.A. and its memories could only be a good thing. "Sometimes it takes a couple months for them to process that stuff."

"I've already spent a month looking at – him – every day. That's too long." Him was Jack Bristow. As far as Vaughn was concerned, Jack had tried to help Vaughn kill Lauren, and that was a good thing; he didn't give a shit if the man's motives had been manipulative or not. But if Sydney wanted him gone from their lives, he was gone. He was part of the past anyway, the past that needed to be buried.

They drank almost an entire bottle of wine that night. Vaughn was the one who poured, but Sydney kept up. Every night since Lauren's death – he'd moved in with her right away, going back to the house where he'd lived a lie only long enough to get his clothes – he and Sydney had done the same thing. They talked about how their lives were going to be different. They drank. And then they had sex.

He had missed Sydney's body so much. And yet it seemed to him sometimes – even when they were naked together, even when he was inside her, moving while she moved, looking into her eyes – that he still missed her. That he hadn't been able to save her from the past and bring her into the present. Or maybe it was just that he couldn't be the man he'd been when he was with her.

This is real, he thought, thrusting into her harder, trying to feel. Everything that's happening, Sydney, all of it's real.

Soon he would believe it.

Sydney could fall asleep within a few minutes; most spies could, having learned the trick after months of jet lag. Vaughn had lost the talent the day he'd found Lauren's fake ID and weapons in a box in his own closet. He lay next to Syd for a long time, listening to her breaths, trying to take comfort from the sound.

Finally, he rose and went into the living room. The laptop whirred silently to life, and it took only a few clicks to bring up the information he'd stolen from various CIA files during the previous month. Inside were no real secrets – at least, nothing more substantial than Sydney had already uncovered in Germany. But Vaughn kept searching them, over and over again, willing the truth to emerge.

He returned to one file most often, stared at the face that smiled back from a CIA identification photo, labeled in scanned letters that had originally been made by typewriter:

WILLIAM VAUGHN.

What had he known?

 

**

III.

 

Sydney stared at Dixon, unable to believe what she'd heard. "You haven't even listened to my reasons."

"I think I can guess your reasons," Dixon said, not without sympathy. He sat on the leather couch in his office and gestured her toward it, but Sydney remained standing, using the rare chance to look down at him. "You're angry at your father. From what I know you have every right to be. But that's not a reason to change assignments within the CIA."

"I don't need a reason. We can put in requests for transfer at any time."

"Syd. Be realistic." Dixon sighed, and for a moment he was no longer her boss, but the friend and partner she'd worked with for years. "You're at the heart of the Rambaldi prophecies. Your sister's on Sloane's side, and she's destined to destroy you or die trying. Do you think the CIA's just going to assign you to fight opiate trafficking? You belong in the Rambaldi investigations, and those are centered here."

Her mother's betrayal, her father's duplicity, her work with Rambaldi – Sydney wondered if there was even one fragment of her life that was her own, that hadn't been decided for her before her birth.

Then she thought, There's Vaughn. Always Vaughn. But his name could not console her now.

"All right," she said. "Transfer my father."

"You're joking."

"Nope. Totally serious." Sydney folded her arms across her chest. "He may have known more about Rambaldi in the beginning, but now we have all the information he has. There's no benefit to keeping him on the project, but there is detriment. He's broken the rules to go after Sloane, lied to authority, lied to – fellow agents. Jack Bristow is a danger to our work. Remove him."

Their eyes met. Dixon clearly wanted to know whether to speak to Sydney the officer or Syd his friend. Sydney wasn't sure herself.

At last, Dixon said, "Technically, I outrank your father on this task force. But he has seniority and connections I can't match. Whatever the hell he did to you, Syd, he apparently did under orders. The CIA doesn't punish people for following orders. They're funny that way."

"You won't try."

"If I tried, I'd fail. Your father will leave this task force when he wants, and not before. That's all there is to it."

"And I'll never leave this task force at all. Should've known."

"Syd –"

She pulled the door open, sorry she'd ever entered his office to begin with. "Forget I mentioned it."

This had to be a kind of hell. No truth, no victory, no love, no escape. Only duty and drudgery and betrayal. Sydney felt her eyes begin to sting with tears, but she kept her chin up, determined to at least get into the hallway before she lost it completely.

Then the door to the far conference room opened, and her father stepped out. He stiffened at the sight of her, his cool eyes going even more distant. "Sydney," he said quietly.

That was all he said to her anymore – a greeting, like one he would give to any coworker. Then he ignored her for the rest of the day, which was a mercy.

Sydney made the only reply she ever made: "Agent Bristow." It only took another couple seconds to walk past him. He didn't follow.

When at last she was in the hallway, Sydney slumped against the wall, forcing herself not to cry. Surely this would all come to a head before too long. She would face Nadia, or Sloane, or both; maybe the prophecy was right, maybe it was wrong, but Sydney knew that, if there was a battle, she would be the victor. Then she would have lots of meaningful talks with Judy Barnett, who would want to know how Syd felt about all that. Rambaldi's plan, his perpetual motion machine or eternal life or newfangled steam engine, would come to fruition, or not, and either the world would end, or not. Barring apocalypse, Sydney would survive and get a transfer. The end.

"Hey." She whirled around to see Eric Weiss standing in the doorway. Quickly he shut the door behind him, giving her some modicum of privacy. "Syd, you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." Sydney knew she would have been more convincing if she didn't have tear tracks on her cheeks. "What's up?"

"Came out here to tell you they're moving Sark tomorrow, out to max security. You can accompany the convoy, if you want to go."

She shook her head. "I don't care. They don't need me."

"Hey, locking up Julian Sark and throwing away the key? Since when is that not a recipe for a good time? You should be partying down on this." Eric did a little dance, which never failed to make her laugh; Sydney wiped her face and smiled at him. "Then again, three hours driving in the desert? Not as exciting."

"No. Seriously, if they order me to go, I'll go. If not – traveling along would just make Sark think he mattered. He doesn't. End of story."

Eric nodded, accepting that. "Okay. Now, about the whole crying thing going on – which do you need, privacy or support?"

Sydney opened her mouth to ask for privacy, then remembered whom she was talking to, and how infrequently they'd spoken of late. "Support. Do you think you could come to dinner tonight?"

"Wow, that's not how I saw the conversation going. You sure you're up for company?"

"Company would be good. It would be great."

He pursed his lips, mock-licentious. "You and Vaughn only just got back together. Shouldn't you two crazy kids still be swinging on the chandeliers in your spare time?"

She remembered the hollowness in Vaughn's eyes, the long silences during dinners. Maybe he needed his best friend back in his life too. And she missed Eric's visits more than she'd ever realized she would. "It's your lucky night. All the chandeliers in the mansion are out for cleaning. And we're having Indian."

"You can cook Indian food?"

"I can dial a phone with the best of 'em." When Eric started laughing, Sydney joined in. Had it been a month since she'd laughed? It felt like it.

"You just happened to hit me while I have a chicken vindaloo craving. That's the only reason I'm coming by. As long as we've got that clear."

"Absolutely."

Eric hesitated before he said, "Not trying to pry here, but are you sure you don't need to talk?"

"I need to decompress," Sydney said. "So does Vaughn. We need to have some fun, you know?"

"And that's when you dial my number. Weiss for fun." The expression on Eric's face was strangely troubled, and Syd opened her mouth to ask him why – but instantly he was smiling again, and she doubted what she thought she'd seen. "Hey, I'll be there at eight. Sound good?"

She pressed his hand quickly. "Sounds great."

 

**

IV.

 

The named time had been 8 p.m., and it was now at least fifteen minutes past that. Strategically, the correct move was to leave the rendezvous immediately. But Jack had not yet finished his whiskey, and he did not intend to face the evening sober.

She called him Agent Bristow.

"Hey, Pat," he said to the bartender. This place was among his haunts. "Did you ever have a woman refuse to call you by your name?"

"Yeah, one time." Pat kept polishing beer glasses, never exactly looking at Jack. "After I stood this girl up, she wouldn't ever call me Brian again. Just called me Rat Bastard."

"Your name's not Brian."

"You think I'd give her my real name?" Pat cackled as he headed down the bar to take someone else's order. Jack took another deep draught of the whiskey.

Before Sydney was born, he'd told himself the work was more important, no matter what. The very first time he held his daughter in his arms, he had known that for a lie. But he had told himself he could serve both purposes, that there was no true betrayal. If his work had succeeded, Jack might still have been able to believe it, even now.

With every passing day, failure seemed more certain. It had all been for nothing.

So why had today's message been sent in the first place? Probably the shadow that had contacted him had realized the futility of this meeting and thought better of it.

Jack, however, was still hoping for a late show. Only three people on earth would know to contact him through that particular channel. One of them was Katya Derevko, and he had some critical questions for her, beginning with her motives for attempting to shoot his daughter. Another of them was Arvin Sloane, and Jack's pistol was loaded and holstered just in case; he had no questions for Sloane, only one answer, and he didn't intend to give Sloane the chance to speak so much as a single word about "eternity" or anything else. And the third –

Well, it wasn't the third.

The whiskey was now a thin amber trickle among half-melted ice cubes. "One more," he said to Pat.

"You're knockin' those out, there. You drivin'?"

"I'll hail a cab," Jack promised. He had taken one over. Otherwise the temptation to simply plow his car into a wall and let the police blame the alcohol might prove too strong. He still had work to do.

Sydney should never have known. Never. God damn the Covenant, with their lax security and their cult-like worship of their own history. An underling such as Lauren Reed should never have possessed information so sensitive. If Sydney had never known, then the knowledge could never have wounded her.

Then again, Lauren had only hurt Sydney. It had fallen to him and his failure to destroy her.

One more whiskey and half an hour later, Jack left. He felt reasonably in control of his reflexes as he made his way to the sidewalk to hail a cab.

"Jack. Turn around."

Slowly, he did as he was told. Irina wasn't holding a gun on him, which was something of a surprise; the weight of his holstered sidearm was warm against his side. He said, "I never thought it would be you."

"I know. That's why I thought you'd show." Her lips tightened in something that didn't rise to the level of a smile. "I didn't think you'd wait so long. I've been out here for a while."

"I'd hate to think I'd inconvenienced you."

"Don't start. We have to talk, and there's very little time."

Jack realized that Irina looked different, somehow. She hadn't altered her appearance surgically, and though her hair was longer, it too was much the same. But her face was drawn, as though she'd lost too much weight too quickly. He couldn't judge for himself because she was wearing loose, shapeless black clothing – Irina Derevko, who usually wasted no opportunity to display her beauty and wield it like a sword.

He made his assessment and spoke softly. "Regrets?"

Even with only the streetlight for illumination, Jack could see the pain flash in her eyes. He drank it down.

"My regrets are not the issue." Irina turned her face from him, denying him even this small, shabby triumph.

"No. Mine are." Jack stepped closer to her, his tread heavy on the sidewalk. "I'm the one who loved you. And because of that, I always believed in you – on some level, even when I knew you were KGB. Yes, I knew you were a monster, but I always believed you were sane. Even when I knew you betrayed me, I never imagined – never once, Irina, in all those years – I never dreamed that you had betrayed our work."

"Don't blame me for your lack of imagination." She was angry now. He didn't give a damn.

"When did it happen to you? When did Rambaldi crowd out the last shred of whatever humanity you may have once possessed? Was it Sloane?" The image of Sloane with Irina, on her, flowed through him like poison, and Jack felt his stomach turn over. "It must have been. He tells the story as though you seduced him, but it was the other way around, wasn't it? Sloane made you want it. He made you decide to claim Rambaldi's ultimate power for yourselves."

"You've believed in Arvin Sloane yourself, Jack. You know how convincing he can be."

Was she appealing for sympathy? After what she had done? "If you'd ever regretted what you'd done, you would have told me."

"So you would have had a chance to kill Nadia?"

"And burn her body. Instead, you sold our work – you sold Sydney – for your precious Rain of Gold."

In that moment, Irina might have struck him – might even have tried to kill him. Jack was uncertain whether to let her or to kill her instead. Either alternative had much to recommend it.

But she kept her place, kept her calm. Irina said only two words in reply: "It's begun."

The ground shifted under Jack, and he knew it wasn't the whiskey. "Where?"

"Genga. Italy. In the caves of the southern hills. They'll find the proof there." Irina hesitated, then added, "Take care of Sydney if you can."

Jack turned from her and flagged the nearest taxi, taking out his cellphone as he did so. He hit the speed dial for the agency before he slammed the door shut behind him. What Irina did after that, he didn't look to see, and told himself he didn't care.

**


	3. Chapter 3

V.

 

Inasmuch as Julian Sark allowed himself any emotions about his current situation, he was disappointed that Sydney Bristow wasn't taking him to prison. It would have shown a certain level of respect.

Then he caught a glimpse of motion at the side of the road – nothing much, just a bending of some desert reeds that could as easily have been the wind. Sark weighed the possibilities, considered the probabilities, and decided that Sydney's absence might have been for the best after all.

His convoy consisted of two trucks carrying guards, front and back, and the bus in which he rode, shackled hand and foot. There was therefore virtually no helpful action he could take. Sark simply braced his elbows and knees against the back of the seat in front of him, then ducked his head.

"Hey, there," one of the guards said from the front of the bus. "What are you doing?"

Sark didn't reply. He locked his hands fast across the back of his neck.

"Hey, you. Didn't you hear me? I said, what are you –"

The shattering of the windshield was louder than the gunfire. As the bus swerved violently, Sark realized that they must have gone for the driver first.

More swerving, more shouting from the guard, more gunfire – thunderous now, as guards from both trucks fired on their attackers. How many people had the Covenant brought? More than enough, it sounded like. Sark was content to wait until his extraction was complete to find out for sure. He remained still; the sunlight was hot against hands and the back of his head. A splinter of glass jabbed into his wrist, and he could feel a thin line of blood trickling down beneath the sleeve of his coverall. He would attend to that later.

The bus slowed, rolling to a very gradual stop. Nobody's foot was on the gas or the brake. The driver, he realized, was dead, and no one remained to take his place. The gunfire outside had diminished from a roar to a few pops here and there. Like the last few seconds for a bag of microwave popcorn, Sark thought.

Just as he prepared to lift his head, he heard a heavy thud against the back of the bus – then the whine of metal on metal as the back door was pried open.

Sark hoped, very strongly, that this would in fact be the Covenant coming to rescue him and not anyone else extracting a personal revenge. When he turned around to see who had entered the bus, he still wasn't sure.

Olivia Reed stood there, in jeans and a tank top, her hair pulled up beneath a military cap. "Now," she said, by way of greeting.

He did was he was told, following her out of the bus and into a flatbed truck, where they lay beneath a tarp for what seemed like hours. Between the motor and the wind and the gravel beneath the wheels, Sark could scarcely hear himself think, and so was glad that Olivia didn't try to talk. Exhausted, he allowed his bonds to be cut away without asking any questions.

Night had fallen by the time the tarp was pulled back. Thus far, they seemed to be treating him as a free man and as a partner, which was a good sign. Apparently Olivia didn't blame him for his capture. No reason she should, of course. But then, Olivia was an unpredictable woman.

When at last they were alone – inside an old warehouse that had been turned into a makeshift shelter – Olivia did not tell him how long they could expect to stay there without being caught, what her next objective was, or anything else. She pulled off her cap so that her long hair fell free and took a deep breath. "Is it true?"

Sark hesitated for only a moment. "I have no information save what agents within the CIA have said to me. But I believe they were telling the truth. I believe that Lauren is dead."

Olivia did not move, but he could see tears welling in her eyes. So her affection for her daughter had been real after all; he'd suspected as much, but you could never be sure. "How did it happen?"

Such calm, under such circumstances: Sark could respect that. "I have this from your former son-in-law," he said. "I believe we can expect a certain level of exaggeration, but the account is probably true in essence."

He then told the story precisely as it had been told to him; it worked to Sark's advantage for Olivia to be very angry at someone else, preferably Vaughn, and the truth was the best way to accomplish that. Like most people in his profession, Sark had honed his memory to near-photographic levels, and so he was able to replicate the satisfaction in Vaughn's voice, the different insults he'd used for Lauren at different points. When he imitated the swing of the crowbar, Sark remembered – only for an instant – Lauren lying in his bed in the early morning, her perfume on the sheets, her drowsy laughter. He concentrated on that. It gave his delivery greater power.

After he was done, Olivia looked away from him, and he allowed her the moments to compose herself. It gave him a chance to think about something else.

Her voice was low as she said, "Vaughn can't be allowed to walk away from this."

"I entirely agree." Sark saw no reason Michael Vaughn should be allowed to walk around at all. "How, precisely, did you want to arrange his demise?"

"Through a very unusual target." Olivia's red-rimmed eyes met his. "It will be dangerous, and difficult. The rest of the Covenant won't back us up. It may serve our long-range plans, but it may not. I don't care anymore. Do you?"

She was asking him to sacrifice everything he had left – which was little more than his life – to avenge Lauren's death. Had he cared for her so deeply? Had he cared for her at all? Julian wasn't at all certain he knew the answers to those questions, or whether he wanted to know.

"We should go after Nadia Santos first," he said carefully, testing the waters. "Surely Vaughn can wait."

"Nadia Santos is with her father," Olivia said. "Vaughn is where we need to begin."

If Sloane had Nadia again, chances were he had acquired the Sphere of Life. If he had done that –

\--then everything had already been set in motion. It was far, far too late to prevent it. He had lived with the terror of this moment for so long that he found it didn't move him now; he knew no emotion save resignation, and suspected he never would again.

And that meant that Lauren – whatever she had or had not been to him – was the holiest cause Sark had left.

"Tell me," he said, "of this unusual target."

**

VI.

 

**outside Genga, Italy**

 

Hazmat suits, Eric decided, are the least comfortable clothing on planet Earth.

Not that he was complaining. He was about to investigate rumors of a biological weapon, an occasion that had Hazmat Suit written all over it. But it was hot as hell in Italy in late June, and he was already slick with sweat, so that the suit's plastic stuck to him in any number of uncomfortable places.

Places I didn't know I had. Strange places, he said to the Sydney in his mind, the Syd he was planning on bitching about this with when he got home.

But he stopped himself. He didn't know when exactly he'd picked up that habit – counting on telling Sydney everything about his life, rehearsing those little conversations in advance. Anticipating them. The point was, it had to stop, and now. She and Vaughn were back together, and he was Vaughn's best friend, and Syd's best friend, and best friends didn't do that kind of stuff.

Not if they didn't want their hearts trampled into the dust any more than necessary.

"Ready to move in?" the junior agent on the case gestured up the hill toward the cave.

Eric nodded, and the heavy hood shifted. The plastic window through which he viewed the world was at a different angle now. "Yeah, let's get in there. Remember – touch nothing unless you're taking a sample through approved methods. No matter what you see. Capice?"

"Capice?"

"Am I the only person in the CIA who's seen The Godfather?" Eric rolled his eyes. "Move it."

They trudged up the hillside, scientists taking up the rear. Birds fluttered through the leafy branches overhead; if something had gotten loose here, it didn't affect avian species. And there were some tracks from something of a small and furry variety, a rat or a vole, maybe. Any evidence of life near a suspected bioweapon site was a good, good sign.

Thus encouraged, Eric continued his walk up the hillside, letting his mind wander a bit. As it so often did, it wandered to Sydney – specifically, to the dinner he'd shared at her apartment three nights before. He'd made his way over there, wine in hand, expecting to have to make the best of the occasion. His own mood was suspect around Syd and Vaughn, these days, and he expected Sark's escape to provide yet another damper on the festivities.

The worst part of all this was that his expectations had been too high. Given a choice between attending that dinner again or going to the party featured in "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?" Eric was confident he would say, "Bring on George and Martha."

Not that there had been any fighting – fighting would've been a relief.

Vaughn was drinking too much, and Syd seemed to be determined to ignore it. She'd probably never seen him drink like that. Weiss had, in the first months after they'd believed Sydney dead – and he'd never wanted to see it again. Sydney drank too, more than Eric had ever seen from her, though less than Vaughn. It was like she was trying to keep up, but couldn't quite.

They didn't joke, didn't laugh, didn't relax. Vaughn couldn't even be coerced into talking the Maple Leafs' run at the Stanley Cup. Okay, Eric thought, it was trivia – but it was trivia Vaughn used to care about. Back when Vaughn cared about anything at all.

Sydney apparently had been thinking about a transfer that wasn't coming together. She was blue. Eric couldn't bring himself to be blue about the fact that Syd wasn't leaving. Vaughn didn't seem to notice. Without anybody to share her bad mood, Sydney just got worse. Before they were even halfway into the chicken vindaloo, Eric was sweaty with nervousness and telling his loudest and stupidest jokes. These jokes, he was well aware, weren't that funny at the best of times, and that dinner? Not the best of times, he thought. Not at all.

Eventually Vaughn had staggered off to bed, and Sydney had walked across the courtyard with him, back to his door. Her arms had been wrapped around herself, as though there were a chill.

"How often is he like this?" Eric had asked.

"Like what?" Syd's face was completely closed off. After the last several months of hanging out with Sydney and repeating the "just friends" mantra in his mind, Eric considered himself an expert on denial. But she was taking it to a whole new level about Vaughn.

Eric forced his thoughts away from Sydney and into the here and now when the junior agent neared the mouth of the cave. "Okay. Preparing for entry."

The flashlight was heavy in Eric's hand; it took a half-second longer to switch it on, because of the thick rubber gloves. "Proceed with entry," he said, following behind.

As he walked into the cave, Eric glimpsed a black flutter up in the stalactites – a bat. Good, he thought, if there's anything here, it doesn't affect the bats –

And then he felt a soft give under one foot, the momentary resistance of slim bones snapping.

Eric combed the floor with his flashlight's beam; as he'd thought, a dead bat was under his foot. In fact, the floor was littered with them. But others were still hanging overhead. What kind of biological weapon were they dealing with, anyway? The tip had been maddeningly vague – coordinates and an offhand comment from Dixon that suggested Jack Bristow knew something about this. If something was in here, it wasn't even strong enough to kill off all the bats. Not that scary, in his opinion.

Then he moved into the cave's inner depths, and saw the first dead body.

Maybe half a dozen people, five men and one woman, lay twisted on the cave floor. From the state of their corpses, Eric figured they'd been dead a week, maybe two. They'd all fallen where they stood.

"Shit," the younger agent breathed. "Oh, holy shit."

"Talk to the lab guys. They'll tell you what to do."

It was a biological weapon that worked almost instantly – otherwise, these people wouldn't have dropped in their tracks. But Dixon's intel had said the weapon would be viral in form, and any virus that killed its host almost instantly was, by definition, an ineffective virus. By killing the hosts so quickly, the viruses made it impossible for more infections to take place. Eric realized why so many bats had lived when the virus affected them as well – the virus had simply died off before it could get to them all.

This isn't the final product, then, Eric realized. Whatever they used here was just a test for something else.

The woman lay at the base of a stone pedestal, her long curls fanned out around her. Eric glanced at the pedestal just in passing, then stared at it. Carved into its surface were the angles and oval of the Rambaldi mark.

He breathed out. "This is NOT good."

**

VII.

**outside Yelapa, Mexico**

 

Sloane sat in his new study, enjoying the ocean breeze and a glass of sangria as he reviewed his records.

The beach house had been a good idea, he thought. Yes, the many windows represented a security risk – but the area was isolated, and they could guard the sea as easily as the land. He'd already insured that they wouldn't have many unexpected guests. And in very short order, Sloane suspected, everyone now searching for him would have more pressing concerns – except those he hoped to be found by.

As he gazed down at the shore, he saw Nadia stepping out on the lower balcony. She wore a thin dress of aquamarine cotton that shivered in the wind; while she gazed out at the sunset, she shielded her gaze with her hands. The heavy silver bracelet around her wrist reflected light into his eyes so that it almost hurt, but Sloane didn't look away. Her coal-black hair – like his mother's, like his own when he was young – streamed out behind her.

So beautiful, he thought. And so strong. Sloane had never known this feeling, this ability to look at a woman and appreciate her completely, body and spirit, and yet know no sexual desire for her. Even Sydney – well. That had never been the strongest part of his feelings for Sydney.

But could Jack Bristow ever have known the kind of joy that Sloane did right now, looking down at Nadia? It seemed unlikely. Nadia was smiling – ecstatic at her reunion with her father, at the beautiful house he had chosen for them to share, for the great destiny he'd already been able to hint at with her. Sloane felt quite certain that Jack had never made Sydney this happy. Probably he'd never even tried.

"Is it hot like this all year?" Nadia called, padding up the spiral staircase in her bare feet. Quickly Sloane minimized the window he was working in; the time would come for Nadia to understand the marvels she had worked, but she wasn't yet ready. "I haven't spent much time in this part of Mexico, and I was wondering what it's going to be like in winter."

She smiled as she walked toward him, and he held out his hands for her to clasp. "It's cooler in winter," he explained, "but still warm. You might want a sweater if you're going to walk along the water at night."

"Sounds nice." Nadia ducked her head. "I still can't believe all this belongs to me."

"This is only the first of the treasures I want to give you. And it's so much less than I owe you."

She glanced at his notes. "What are you working on?"

"Nothing important." He rose to get another glass from the bar. "Sangria? Let's go outside and talk, while there's light left. We have so much still to share."

"You're right." Nadia was glowing in the sunset light; it wasn't his imagination. He couldn't stop himself from smiling as she beamed back. "So much."

It would be better to raise this subject now, while she was happy and at ease. "And we should talk about our houseguests."

"Guests?"

"This time together has been – magical," Sloane replied. "But even our solitude has to come to an end."

**

VIII.

 

"What do you mean, we're not tracking Sark?" Vaughn could feel the blood pounding in his temples from rage already.

"Nobody made a choice, Mr. Vaughn." Jack Bristow looked like a statue, one carved out of granite. Everything about his demeanor suggested that he thought he had someplace better to be, something more important to worry about, which in Vaughn's opinion was as insulting as it was wrong. "Mr. Sark's escape was quick and total. We have no leads, no tracking devices, nothing."

"This is such bullshit." He longed to kick the nearest wall, but restrained himself; when he'd first learned of Sark's getaway, he'd punched a door. The knuckles of his left hand still hurt. "Sark was one of the leaders of the Covenant! He funded the damn organization! And we let him walk?"

"He commanded greater resources and loyalty than we had anticipated."

The way that was phrased made Vaughn pause. Squinting at Jack he said, "You didn't help him get away, did you?"

Jack gave him a glare of pure ice. "I did not. What motive would I possibly have?"

"Nobody knows your motives but you, Jack." Vaughn shrugged, exaggerating the movement. "For instance, I have no idea why you wanted to murder Nadia Santos – but you were going to do it. And if you'd try to betray your own daughter, you'd sure as hell betray me. That's what Sark's getaway feels like. Betrayal."

He waited for Jack to protest his innocence, so he could slap the guy down. Not that he actually thought Jack had helped Sark escape; Vaughn couldn't see any benefit to Jack in that. But there was no way Jack Bristow could claim to really be an innocent man.

Instead, Jack stepped closer and said, "If I had betrayed you, Mr. Vaughn, you'd never have known what it felt like."

And then he was gone.

Once Vaughn was calm and working at his desk again, he felt weird about the whole conversation. Why had he accused Jack of something he didn't think the man actually did? God knew there was enough to be mad about, without making stuff up. Was it anger, because Jack had hurt Sydney? That would be a good reason to lash out at Jack or at anyone. But Sydney had been the furthest thing from his mind.

In the end, Vaughn thought, he might have tried to pick a fight with Jack Bristow for no better reason than the fact that he was there.

He stared at the CIA logo that served as his computer's wallpaper, the eagle glaring back at him. Its talons gripped the sheaves of peace and the arrows of war. It always faced toward the sheaves; that was the promise of the government, the lie, that its one and only goal wasn't power. Vaughn wished he didn't know better.

At moments like this – when he was able to stop and reflect – Vaughn could see himself as he would have years ago, and he hated what he saw. He hated the sick, roiling fury that curled inside him, nauseating and thick. He hated the fact that he got angry about every damn thing, just because it gave his anger a place to go. He hated that he couldn't find anything in his soul that resembled peace, or joy, or even love.

You're letting Lauren own you, he told himself. Don't let her own you.

But she had sunk her claws in deep.

At 7 p.m., Sydney wandered by his desk, a determined smile on her face. "You know what?" she said, leaning on the back of his chair. "We should eat out tonight. Get some Italian, maybe. That little place by the ocean – remember?"

Il Trovatore. It was on the tip of Vaughn's tongue to speak the name, and thereby to commit himself. But there was nothing in the world he wanted less than to dress up, go out, and put on a face for the world to see. He was surprised Sydney couldn't guess that. "I have some stuff to catch up on here. I should stay."

"Oh. Okay." He tried to convince himself that her sigh wasn't just the slightest bit relieved. "Too bad. Had my heart set on the linguini di mare."

"Ask Weiss. He's back from Italy, right?" The suggestion was the first that sprung to mind, so Vaughn was relieved to realize it was actually a pretty good one. "Sounds like they saw some crazy stuff. He could probably use the down time."

Syd's smile softened, becoming more real. "All right, I will. Good idea." She dropped down and kissed his cheek, so sweetly that for a moment Vaughn could pretend the last three years had never happened. "See you when you get home."

Home. Was anyplace home any more?

Vaughn worked until almost midnight. He told himself he wasn't avoiding going to Sydney's so often that he began to believe it. But it was exhaustion that drove him from his computer in the end.

The streets of Los Angeles were even crowded at midnight. Vaughn was able to make slightly better time than usual, though, cruising along as he headed out toward Silver Lake. He turned up the stereo, tuned it to an '80s station and tried to pretend he was a teenager cruising again. With Adam Ant thumping on the speakers and the wind in his hair, he could almost pull it off.

Vaughn enjoyed the drive so much that it took him a while to realize he was being followed.

At his first suspicion, he took a random right turn – no major detour, nothing that would alert the drivers around him. The low sedan behind him made the turn too. Damn, damn, damn.

He remembered the conversation with Jack he'd had that afternoon, the accusation of betrayal, and wondered if he'd accidentally hit on more than he knew. Would Jack Bristow actually kill him? Vaughn doubted it, but he didn't wholly trust his own judgment calls anymore. Whoever the hell it was behind him, they meant him no good; that meant it was time to lose them, and fast.

As soon as he'd created some space between him and the sedan, Vaughn took a quick turn into an alleyway, planning on doubling back – only to slam on the brakes just in time to avoid hitting the van in front of him.

Black-garbed men jumped out. Vaughn damned the fact that he'd kept his gun in the trunk, flung open the car door and ran for it – over the fan, bumper hood windshield roof and jump –

Clear. Vaughn kept running, not looking back. He heard footsteps pounding behind him – many of them – but no gunshots. This wasn't a simple assassination, then. If he could get to the main road, chances were his attackers wouldn't try anything in public, and he was close. Getting closer. Almost there.

Something hard slammed into the side of his neck, and then Vaughn felt the lancing pain of electric shock surging through him, jerking his limbs, dimming his sight, making him weak.

He heard himself fall. The world seemed very far away.

Taser, Vaughn thought, then knew no more.

**

He awoke with a headache, on a floor that titled and shifted beneath his feet. Vaughn sat up, disoriented and uneasy – and instantly sure that he wasn't alone.

"Good," a masculine voice said. "Took you a while to come to. I was starting to worry."

"Nice of you." Vaughn's snark was automatic. He could see moonlight coming in through small, rounded windows; the reason the floor was shifting was that he was on a plane. Good to know, bad for short-term escape prospects. He squinted through the dim lighting to make out a tall, lanky frame, leaning against the far wall to study him. "Any chance you're going to tell me why I'm here?"

"I'm going to explain. Michael, I swear to you, I'm going to explain everything."

That voice –

Vaughn stared upward, blinking away his remaining dizziness as he tried to make out the features of his captor. His eyes went wide.

He could say only one word: "Dad?"

**


	4. Chapter 4

_By the rivers dark  
I wandered on  
I lived my life   
In Babylon_

And I did forget  
My holy song  
And I had no strength  
In Babylon

By the rivers dark  
I could not see  
Who was waiting there  
Who was hunting me

And he cut my lip  
And he cut my heart  
So I could not drink  
From the river dark

And he covered me  
And I saw within  
My lawless heart  
And my wedding ring

Then he struck my heart  
With a deadly force  
And he said, "This heart  
It is not yours."

By the rivers dark  
In a wounded dawn  
I live my life   
In Babylon

\-- Leonard Cohen, "By the Rivers Dark"

 

IRENICON: Book Two

 

I.

 

**Toronto, Ontario, Canada**

 

Kathy's e-mail read: "Have you seen this?"

Alice clicked on the link, which took her to a news site for a station back home in L.A. Just a short piece, three paragraphs, that said State Department employee Michael Vaughn was missing and presumed dead. Investigators suspected suicide: His car had been found near a bridge. The third tragedy in recent months for that family, after the suicide of Vaughn's father-in-law, Senator George Reed, and the death of his wife, Lauren, in a plane crash overseas.

It was all there in black and white, illustrated by a small photograph of police officers huddled around Michael's car. She had helped him shop for that car four years ago; they'd held hands in the dealer's lot.

Alice held her hand to her mouth, grateful that she was traveling for business, that Tim wasn't with her, that she could be alone to hear this. She didn't have to hide in the bathroom to cry.

When her partners at the consulting group called her room, wondering why she hadn't come down to dinner, Alice begged off. Bad news from home, she said, and was grateful they didn't pry.

Michael, dead. It seemed impossible. And – suicide? Surely not. He was too strong for that, too determined, too focused on the future.

But his wife had died, and after a tragedy like that, who could say? Alice tried to imagine losing Tim and shivered. No, there was no telling what kind of madness might grip you when you were grieving.

She'd met Lauren once, not quite two years ago, when she and Tim ran into Michael and Lauren at a bar they both used to like. The awkwardness had been smoothed over with a joke about how they ought to have expected it – then Tim and Michael both turned out to be fans of the band playing on the jukebox. Then Lauren started making jokes about wedding preparations, and Alice had needed to blow off some steam about that herself. Finally they ended up sharing a couple pitchers and laughing until midnight. It had felt so good to be Michael's friend again.

She'd even teased him about having a thing for blondes, which Lauren seemed to find funnier than he did.

They attended each other's weddings, though there was no time to talk during the hubbub, of course. And then Alice had always meant to call him, to stay in touch, but she never had. After she'd read about the plane crash, Alice sent flowers; she'd just been waiting a couple more weeks before looking him up to see if he was okay. She hadn't wanted to intrude, and so she hadn't known he was in trouble, and now it was all too late.

Alice was shocked by her bloodshot eyes when she washed her face that night, but she shouldn't have been. No sooner was she tucked under the covers than she started crying again.

Why am I carrying on like this? Alice thought. I loved Michael, but it was a long time ago.

But it was more than that. It was realizing how fragile life was, how little time everyone really had.

Just last month, Tim had asked about starting a family, and she'd said she wasn't ready. Lying in her hotel room, thousands of miles from her home, Alice was no longer certain of that. Maybe she should think about it more seriously. And it would make Tim so happy –

She fell asleep thinking of good names for a boy.

At 3 a.m., Alice awoke, nauseated. Her mind supplied the name "Jacob," as if on autopilot, and she tried to laugh. Was she really neurotic enough to have conjured up morning sickness before a pregnancy? No, no doubt she was still upset. Crying hard for a long time could turn you into a wreck.

But by 5 a.m., she was running a fever, too. Great, she thought. Just great. Her annoyance and having become ill on a business trip, in another country even, crowded out both baby names and grief as she forced herself to roll over and call the concierge for help.

The doctor seemed to take a very long time to get there. By that time, Alice no longer felt much of anything but the heavy weight on her chest. What was on her chest? It made it so hard to breathe.

A maroon-jacketed clerk stood several feet away, holding a Kleenex across her nose. "We've got seven of these. It's not SARS, is it?"

"No." The doctor's voice was kind; Alice could see her reflection in his bifocals. Her eyes were now dark red, which scared her, but he patted her shoulder. "Not SARS."

"It's nothing they ate, because they were all at different restaurants, except this one, and she didn't eat at all."

The doctor wasn't really listening, Alice could tell. His fingertips were at the pulse point of her wrist, his mouth a frown. "The symptoms they're describing – it's almost like viral pneumonia, but to have so many cases of that so close together –"

Viral pneumonia was dangerous. Alice knew that much. "Am I going to be okay?"

"Don't worry. Just relax. I'm going to give you an injection – help you rest –"

Alice closed her blood-hot eyes gratefully, and she sank into darkness without ever considering that it might be for the last time.

**

II.

 

"It doesn't look as though you're very glad to see me."

Vaughn stared up at his father, unable to talk, to think, to do anything but sit there slack-jawed.

Bill Vaughn ducked his head, a gesture Vaughn recognized as one of his own. Everything about this man was familiar: it was his own face with wrinkles, his hair faded gray, his frame with a few more muscles. "I realize my appearance raises a lot of questions, Michael. And I don't know if you're going to like all the answers, at least at first. But still – I spent so many years thinking about you – I hoped you'd be glad to see me, at least a little."

The plane shifted – air pocket – and it jolted Vaughn back into reality. He forced himself to stand up, one hand against the wall for balance, so he could look Bill – Dad – Bill in the eyes.

This man, he thought, abandoned me and my mother. This man kidnapped a newborn baby. This man is so deep in the Rambaldi cults that he makes Jack Bristow look like an amateur. For all I know, he helped take Sydney away from me.

But none of that was the reason Vaughn had to fight for control. The worst of it – the absolute worst – was that, despite everything, Vaughn was glad to see him.

"They said you were dead. They said Irina Derevko murdered you."

"Derevko tried." Bill's voice was dry, almost amused. "For many years, she thought she'd succeeded. I think she's learned the truth in the past few months. It doesn't matter anymore."

"They – Thomas Brill –" Only after clarifying himself did Vaughn realize he was spilling intel to a person that was, obviously, seriously suspect. He thought, Stop treating this guy like your dad. You don't know him. "They said you took Nadia when she was just a baby."

"I did." Bill sounded -- proud. "That's the only reason Nadia lived to be an adult. A group of us protected her, guarded her, watched her all the time. Her mother wouldn't have done it. Not for long."

He means it, Vaughn thought. He really means it. And God knew Irina Derevko was a dangerous woman; hadn't she shot Sydney? Vaughn had never fully bought her excuse for that one. Was it possible that his father was telling the truth?

Perhaps reading his thoughts, his father added, "Michael, all I ask is that you keep an open mind."

His heart was thumping fast – much too fast. Sweat had slicked his skin. Vaughn was on adrenalin overload, as though he were preparing to fight for his life. "If you're ready to tell me the truth, I'm ready to listen."

"Piece by piece. Step by step."

Truth takes time, Vaughn's brain supplied. He didn't find the similarity between his situation and Sydney's all that comforting.

Oh, shit, Sydney. She'd be worried sick. Had Dad – Bill – his father even thought of that? "Why can't you just tell me?"

"It takes a long time to understand, Mike. But eventually, you're going to know the truth about Rambaldi's work." The gleam in his father's eyes was nothing Vaughn had ever seen there before – though he'd glimpsed it in Irina Derevko, in Julian Sark, even in Arvin Sloane. "You'll be a part of it."

Maybe it was the name Rambaldi. Maybe it was fear for Sydney. Maybe it was just that he'd been sliding down for a long, long time and had only now hit bottom. But it hit – physically hit, making him reel – and Vaughn lost it.

"I'm going to be sick," he choked out. "Move."

Stumbling past his father, Vaughn half-walked, half-fell into the airplane's bathroom and was sick until he felt as though he'd turned inside out. Even when it was over, when there was nothing left of dinner or lunch or anything he'd ever had inside him, he couldn't make himself stand up again. His heartbeat was so hard it ached; his face throbbed, and his chest pounded so that he could see it through his shirt.

Then, in another sickening rush of heat, he lost his sense of time and place completely: Everything that had ever happened to him – all of it was happening right now:

_Lauren hung from a hook, panic and deceit in her eyes, begging to live, swearing she loved him –_

Sydney braced herself as the jet began plummeting toward the ground, unwilling to meet his eyes as they headed toward a crash and probably toward death –

"You have to be my big boy now," his mother said, still wearing her black dress for the funeral. "Promise me?"

Sark grinned as he held up a strange white device Vaughn didn't recognize but knew was meant to cause him pain –

"Oh, Michael, yes," Lauren moaned as he moved inside her, hating her, playing the part of her husband and wondering if Sydney was being forced to listen –

Sydney's apartment was nothing but ash and smoke – the kitchen where they'd laughed, the bed where they'd made love --- and the coroners were using a stretcher to carry out something that didn't even look human anymore –

"Enjoy hell" --

 

Vaughn gulped in a breath, trying to steady himself, trying to place himself in time and space. Was he even in an airplane? That couldn't have been his father outside, could it? Nothing made any sense anymore. And his heart was still pounding so fast that it made him shake.

One part of his brain, still functioning long after everything else, helpfully supplied the information that dangerous surges in adrenalin levels were often a sign of a brief psychotic episode, what lay people often referred to as a "nervous breakdown." It seemed like good information to have, but he couldn't hold onto the idea. Everything was slipping from him, washed away in the same tide that was drowning him.

His ears popped, and Vaughn thought: At least I know the plane's landing. If I'm on a plane.

The floor shuddered, and after a while the bathroom door opened. Vaughn jumped, both astonished to see his father back from the dead and wondering what had taken him so long. Then he thought about that for a moment. "I'm sick," he said. It was the one thing he was sure of.

"Come on." Bill guided him out of the plane to a landing field that seemed to be in the middle of nowhere – no hanger, no town, just landing lights and a strip and then a swath of darkness so vast it might have been the far side of the moon. Was he hallucinating now? Was this all some kind of dream?

As they got in Jeeps and began driving – through the desert, he thought, though what desert he didn't know – Vaughn tried to resurrect his training and his sanity to deal with the situation. He could see "bodyguards" in other Jeeps around them; his father kept a pretty sizeable private force.

His father --

When he could make the world stop whirling, he glanced over at Bill. At Dad. The hands on the steering wheel had helped build model airplanes, steadier with the glue than any kid could ever be. The profile against the darkness was the one that had squinted into traffic while driving to school, his paper-bag lunch piled on top of the Hong Kong Phooey lunchbox.

How many nights had he prayed for this? When he was a kid, Vaughn had been able to tell himself it was all a mistake, some big mistake; they hadn't even found his body, had they? He would lie awake for hours, looking up at the model planes suspended from his ceiling on wires so that they made lazy circles above his pillow, all the while waiting for the sign that it was all a big lie and Dad would come back someday.

Go figure, Vaughn thought. I knew more about the world when I was 11 than I do right now.

Or maybe I am 11. Maybe this is a dream I'm having beneath the model planes.

He knew he ought to be arguing, fighting, at least demanding more answers. But the words vanished from his mind before he could get them to his mouth; his attention zigged and zagged, too fast for him to grab onto any idea for long. I'm sick, Vaughn thought. I'm sick.

When his father finally shut off the motor, Vaughn could hear water nearby – the ocean, or a large lake? In front of them was a house, perhaps a mansion, so white and beautiful it seemed to hover above the sand. This had to be a hallucination. This couldn't be real.

Vaughn tired to speak calmly. "Seems nice, for a prison."

"I'll tell you one thing I've learned, Michael." His father's face was, at that moment, as gentle as in Vaughn's earliest memories. "This whole world's a prison. You're just lucky if you get to choose your cellmates."

Bill – Dad – sounded so tired, so sad. So sorry. Maybe it was possible, just possible, that he had an explanation. All these people chasing after Rambaldi – there had to be something to it, didn't there? Vaughn didn't want to believe that, but he could feel the hope creeping in, maybe just because it gave him something in this upside-down world to grab hold of. When he saw Sydney again – oh, God, Sydney –

The world tilted once more, crazily off balance, and Vaughn wondered if it was even possible for him to get sick again.

His father guided him into a basement kitchen with painted-tile floors and granite countertops. Nice, Vaughn thought, though he was aware that it was bizarre to fixate on the decor. To his surprise, Bill called out, "We're here!"

"Wait – this isn't – who lives here?"

"We're guests, Mike. Be polite. And stand up straight."

Holy crap, Vaughn thought, next he's going to tell me to go wash my hands. But he'd already straightened up. His father's voice was a powerful thing –

"There you are." A shadow emerged from the stairs and then stepped out onto the tile, holding a wineglass. "You're late. Must be tired."

It couldn't be. It could not be --

"Sloane." Vaughn spat the word out. "What are you doing here?"

"I live here. As do you, for the foreseeable future." Sloane's crinkled face turned up in a smile. "I suspect you'll be wanting a drink."

"Who's here?" Nadia called, running down the steps – then freezing, just behind her father, as she glimpsed Vaughn. She obviously had been expecting this – she wasn't all that surprised – but she didn't welcome his intrusion.

Punch-drunk and exhausted, Vaughn started to laugh, the unhinged sound of it echoing in the room. It sounded scary. It felt scary. He leaned against the granite countertop, grateful for its cool solidity beneath his hands. Maybe at least this was real.

"Michael? I know it's a lot to take in –" Bill leaned close to him, too close.

Vaughn pushed him back and shook his head. "You just lost the benefit of the doubt."

One elbow and WHAM – his father went down, tumbling onto that really great painted tile. Vaughn bolted for the door, not caring if he could make it or not, just determined to try –

The taser bolt caught him in the small of his back, and oh, shit, it hurt even worse. The world went white and black as he spiraled downward. Even after he hit the ground, he felt as though he were still falling.

"Is he all right?" A woman's voice. Nadia's.

"He will be," said the voice that might have been his father's.

**

III.

 

"There has to be some sign," Sydney pleaded. "Some trace. Something. God, Marshall, you can track brainwaves all over the world, and you can't find Vaughn?"

"Syd, I swear to God, I'm trying!" Marshall's necktie was loose around his neck, and it looked like he hadn't shaved in a couple of days. The many empty Styrofoam cups on his desk were a testament to extreme caffeine consumption. Sydney knew he was working hard, but she couldn't help feeling the strong urge to just shake Marshall until the solution fell out. "We don't, uh, actually have a record of Vaughn's brainwaves, which is kinda odd when you think about it, seeing how long he worked here. But it's not standard data collection, not yet anyway, though now that we have the satellites it might be a good idea to add –"

"That's the future. I'm worried about right now." She stared at the slowly rotating world map on Marshall's monitor. "What about DNA? You have his DNA profiled, right?"

"Down to the guanine," Marshall promised. "But for that to help us, Vaughn would have to be checked into a hospital – not that he's hurt! I'm sure he's just fine, except, you know, if he's just fine, then no hospital's going to end up entering his DNA into a database, which means we're pretty much screwed."

Three weeks. Vaughn had been missing for three weeks, and the entire CIA couldn't turn up a single damned clue. The suicide ruse was obviously that, meant to cover up an abduction, carried out by Sark or Sloane, maybe both of them together. Was it revenge for Lauren? Something to do with his late father's connection to Rambaldi? Just to hurt her? Just to make sure their destruction of Vaughn's life was complete?

"Surely there's something else we can try, Marshall."

"I'll think of something. I promise." Marshall ran his hands through his already wild hair. "It's just, it's crazy right now, you know? I'm trying to crunch the numbers on that weird pneumonia outbreak in Toronto and make sure that's not deliberate, and track Covenant members, plus Mitchell's teething, so the sleep factor is not real high right now. And looking for Vaughn, that's priority number one, full-time, all the time until he shows back up here and says, 'Hey, Marshall, knock it off,' in his trademark laconic fashion. But the other stuff's still got to get done --"

"Call me if something turns up," she said flatly.

"You know it. The instant. The second. The nanosecond." Marshall hesitated, then said, "And get some sleep, okay? You look kinda tired. Cute, though! You always look cute, just now -- in a tired way."

Sydney managed to smile. "I'll try."

In the three weeks since Vaughn's disappearance, she'd slept no more than a few hours a night. Every day, she'd hunted leads, analyzed clues, pored over Echelon alert logs in desperate search of a clue – any clue – that might tell her what had happened to Vaughn. Just the night before, Weiss had sat up with her until four in the morning, typing furiously into the laptop computer, following a hunch of hers about their decryption keys for Covenant intel being incorrect. The hunch didn't lead anywhere.

There were other suspects besides Sloane or Sark, but each of them hurt worse than the last. Nadia was her sister, the promise of family – but Nadia had chosen Sloane and obsession over Sydney and love. Irina Derevko was her mother – but her mother's lies only contained more lies, every "disclosure" just another deception. She'd killed Vaughn's father; why not – kidnap – Vaughn?

Jack Bristow was her father. He hated Vaughn And he'd lied to her throughout her life, using her, manipulating her, because of the genes she carried – and hadn't Vaughn been born into Project Christmas too?

Sydney didn't believe her family was behind this, but she wondered if that was no more than the influence of her last remaining scrap of foolish innocence.

Her work was a lie. Her sister and her parents had betrayed her. And now Vaughn was gone.

As she stepped into the parking garage, Sydney felt her eyes filling with tears. Not here, she thought desperately. Just let me get home where I can lie under a blanket and be alone –

"Sydney?"

She wheeled around to see her father. He shifted awkwardly from one foot to the next, as though he scarcely remembered being human well enough to know how to stand. Their eyes met for the first time since Wittenburg.

"Do you know something?" She forced her voice to remain even. "If you do, tell me now. You owe me that much."

"I don't know anything. I would tell you if I did."

"Then why are you here?" Sydney had promised herself she'd never have to get through one of these conversations again; her world was bad enough without her father in it.

He just blinked at her. "I wanted to know if you were all right."

"All right? All right? Vaughn's disappeared, and you thought I'd be all right with that?"

"That's not what I meant, and you know it."

The correction drove her over the edge. "What, do you need the data? For one of your reports? 'The subject's grief process?' Did you ever stop and think that maybe, just maybe, if you'd shared some of the secrets you've kept all these years, Vaughn might have known enough to protect himself? But then, you never cared about Vaughn at all, did you?"

Her father didn't even react; it was like he wasn't even listening. Maybe he never had been. "I'll find out what I can. I can go through – alternate channels."

"Don't pretend that you're doing any of this for me, Agent Bristow." Sydney hurried for the truck, hoping he wouldn't follow, and yet vaguely disappointed when he did not.

**

IV.

 

"Checkin' this out for your daughter, huh?" Thomas Brill smiled across the chessboard, taking his hand from the rook to pick up his cigar. The summer wind rustled the leaves of the trees above their table in the park.

"I have my own reasons for needing to know Mr. Vaughn's whereabouts." Jack slid his bishop across to counter the rook.

"You sound awfully sure he's still alive."

Jack wasn't sure of that at all; in fact, he considered it surpassingly unlikely. "No purpose would be served by looking for him, otherwise. The facts of his theoretical demise would be useless to us."

"Us. Who's us, Jack?"

Us, in this context, meant him and Sydney, even if Sydney didn't agree. But Brill didn't need to know that Jack was basically acting alone. "If you don't have information for me, don't extend this interview. The exposure is dangerous for us both."

Brill shifted a pawn, a move that was purely stalling, and slapped the time clock. "Like I don't know that. Listen, Jack, all I know about Michael Vaughn is the rumor that some people wanted him to go the way of his father."

Jack closed his eyes for a moment. If Vaughn had been killed, Sydney would be destroyed. "What people?"

"That's a harder question to answer. It would take time. People. Money."

"I can give you two million if you start today."

"Five."

"Done." The breeze ruffled Jack's hair, and he took a deep breath before edging his queen forward a single square.

"Jack, Jack, Jack." Brill laughed as he took the queen with one of his knights. "Since when did you get so –"

Jack went for the gun, three moves and it was in his hand, cocked, trigger ready, muzzle in Brill's face.

"—careless," Brill finished, grinning around his cigar. "Just outta curiosity, Jack, what tipped you off?"

"Two million was more than sufficient for the kind of investigation needed. The Thomas Brill I knew, faced with a mission to find Bill Vaughn's son – he would never have haggled for a higher fee."

"Times are tough all over. Priorities have to change."

Jack glared. "That depends on what your priorities were to begin with."

"You realize I've got a gunman on you, right?"

"I'm surprised there's only one. But I think it's important that he understands that either we're both leaving this park alive, or neither of us is."

A nearby luncher stared at them, then seeing the smile still on Brill's face, shrugged and went back to her sandwich. Probably, Jack thought, she thinks we're rehearsing a scene. Los Angeles covered any number of evils.

"Walk on outta here, Jack." Brill began separating the chess pieces back to their sides of the board, white with white, black with black. "For what good it'll do you. The Rain of Gold is coming, and there's nothing anybody can do to stop it."

"You don't know that," Jack said, though he was very close to believing it himself. "Were you telling the truth about Vaughn?"

Brill cocked his head, studying Jack's face as though they had just met. "Partly. Jack, that boy's with his father now. That's all there is to it."

Dead. Michael Vaughn was dead.

"I'm about ready to stop having a gun pointed in my face," Brill said. "Get out of here before I decide to take my chances that my sniper's faster on the trigger than you."

Jack backed away across the grass, lowering the gun slowly as he neared the main road. Brill just kept studying the chessboard.

He should tell Sydney. But if he told Sydney, she wouldn't believe him, and she'd blame him, and she'd – she'd give up. So many times, during the previous year, Jack had been sick with fear that his daughter was on the verge of doing exactly that. Not committing suicide – Sydney was far too strong for that, Jack thought – but giving up on happiness altogether.

She doesn't need to know, Jack decided. Not yet.

**


	5. Chapter 5

V.

 

**London, England, United Kingdom**

 

"Madam?" The maid spoke politely, but her thumping on the door was becoming insistent. "I'm sorry, but those are the rules. Someone from the management must enter the hotel rooms at least once a week –"

Irina grabbed the neck of the empty vodka bottle by the bed and hurled it toward the door with all her might. The bottle shattered so hard it stripped some of the door's paint off, and the maid screamed. The thumping of her footsteps got further and further away as she ran for the front desk.

"_Chort vosmi_," Irina groaned. Now they'd throw her out, and while she was nearly ready to leave London, she would have preferred a more civilized exit.

Carefully she pushed herself up into a seated position, back against the padded headboard. Her head spun unpleasantly, but she could manage. Apparently this hangover wouldn't be as bad as yesterday's, though it was far worse than the one the day before.

Giving in to despair? Katya's voice taunted her from memory

Jack joined in: Regrets?

They understood her, these two perhaps alone in all the world. But even now, they didn't know the whole truth. If they had, would they perhaps forgive her? Or would they hate her even more?

Irina was certain of only one thing: They could not hate her as much as she despised herself at this moment.

She had betrayed Jack in their marriage bed. She had gone without seeing Sydney for twenty years and without Nadia for twenty-five. She had exposed men who worked for her – men who trusted her – to biological weapons that turned their flesh to pulp long before they found the mercy of death. Irina had done all this for a single mission, a single justification, a single goal.

And she had failed.

This hotel was where she had come to crash and to burn. She'd spent days indulging in alcohol, cigarettes and, four nights ago, one of the security guards, a dark-skinned man half her age. Irina had been trying to sear everything from her soul that held her back: love and hope, self-pity and despair, all of it. If she could hurt her body badly enough, turn it into something to be used and no more, maybe she'd be hollowed out. Maybe the shell of the woman she used to be could bear to take this next, most hated step.

Yet, as she ran her hands through her matted hair and grimaced at the harsh tobacco taste in her mouth, Irina knew she hadn't succeeded. Instead she just looked rough – the reflection in the mirror was that of a woman older than her age, and she'd always prided herself on looking younger – and felt worse.

And Irina dreaded this day's work as much as she ever had. All the same, it had to be done.

She showered quickly and was dressed before the security guards showed up to escort her out. One of them was the young man she'd had, but they didn't make eye contact as she snatched up her one duffle bag and swept regally out the door.

Days before, she'd mapped out the path to the nearest internet café. A fake ID and credit card got her an uninterrupted hour at one of the machines.

Irina typed in the account name and password that had been encrypted in the ad in the China Mail. Then she wrote: WE SHOULD MEET. WE HAVE A LOT TO TALK ABOUT.

The response came within minutes:

I AGREE. I'LL COME TO YOU. SEND A LOCATION AND A DATE, AND WE"LL WORK IT OUT.

I'VE MISSED YOU.

\--ARVIN

**

VI.

 

Only a month ago, Nadia had daydreamed of herself as a princess in a palace, far away from all the world's cares. With the arrival of Michael Vaughn, all of that changed for the worse.

Michael would not talk to his father or to hers. He wanted answers they would not give – shouted his questions at the top of his lungs, no matter how many times he was denied. Some of his questions made senses; others were disconnected from events, even from reality, to a degree that frightened her. His escape attempts had all proved unsuccessful. In quieter moments, he asked to leave or at least to call Sydney, but his father refused, sometimes with tears in his eyes. One night he had broken everything he could get his hands on: her father's beautiful paintings, the pottery, even one of the windows, before the guards shocked him into semi-consciousness again.

Surely there was a limit to how many times a person could endure taser shock without permanent damage. Nadia thought Michael must be near it.

Until Michael arrived, Nadia hadn't thought much about the guards. It was astonishing, she thought, how deeply and how quickly a lifetime's suspicion and judgment could be dulled by the promise of love. Perhaps she should have been grateful to Michael, for keeping her suspicions alive – but instead she resented him, aware all the while of the injustice of doing so. He wasn't well. Michael Vaughn was more clearly unwell than virtually anyone else Nadia had ever known in her life.

Bill Vaughn, on the other hand, was delightful company, never disturbing the fragile towers of her palace; he could chat about opera and wine, the cities where he'd traveled, the various books he'd read. The one subject he never broached was Rambaldi. At first Nadia found that something of a relief; as the days went on, the evasion felt more and more unnatural. But she suspected that Sloane wasn't ready for her to raise the issue herself.

Not to say that they didn't talk.

"Why is Michael here?" she asked Sloane, during one of their late-night chats. "He's unwell – mentally, I mean. For his own good, he should probably be in hospital."

"Michael is with us because I owe his father very, very deeply." He sighed, settling back into the cushions of the sofa that looked out on the waves. "Bill Vaughn saved your life, Nadia. Years before I even knew you had been born, before I could find you to take care of you, Bill made sure that you got a chance to grow up. I know you had a difficult childhood, but all the while, people were looking out for you. Bill was one of them."

She remembered long nights in the orphanage, listening to the new ones cry as she huddled under her thin blanket. Had she been protected, all that time? It was frightening, Nadia thought, how badly she needed to believe that. And yet – she'd had to ask herself if the guards that watched over Michael weren't also there for her. "If his father loves him so much, he should want him to be properly cared for. He needs a therapist, or medication. Both, maybe. Instead, he's just – staying here."

"A father's love is a powerful thing, my dearest." Sloane stroked her hair once, the first time he had dared such a touch. It warmed her, but she didn't let herself smile. "We want what's best for our children, even when our children don't know it for themselves."

Was that why he had injected the Rambaldi fluid into her? The incandescent beauty of those visions had never made Nadia forget the agony of cramping fire racing through her veins. "How is this best for Michael?"

"That will become clear in time." Her father was very good at answering questions without answering them at all.

The next day, at lunch, Nadia was startled when Michael appeared in the kitchen. Until then, he'd stayed in his room every moment he wasn't shouting, and his meals had been left on a tray by his door. Most of them were brought back untouched hours later. But now he was standing uneasily in the doorway, his face unshaven – well on its way to a beard – and his demeanor subdued.

"Michael." Bill started to rise, then sat back down, obviously determined to pretend that this was any other meal. "We're having pasta. Linguini di mare."

Michael closed his eyes for a moment, as if uncomfortable, but then he nodded. "I'd like that. Thanks." He sounded reasonable – he sounded sane. Bill deftly set him a place opposite Nadia, who noticed that they didn't give Michael a knife.

From his position at the end of the table, Sloane smiled and lifted a wineglass. "Would you like some wine? A white Chateauneuf, 1999 – extraordinary vintage."

"Sure." Michael's face showed little reaction. "That would be – great."

He sat heavily in his chair, and for a moment Nadia pitied him. Yes, he'd regained some equilibrium – but this was a kind of surrender, nonetheless. She had never made such a surrender herself, but she had looked long into those depths. "This is delicious," she said. It was the first she'd dared to speak to him since his arrival. "They brought the scallops in from the ocean this morning."

Their eyes met. Nadia realized how much weight he had lost, and wondered if he was capable of caring about anything so mundane as the quality of their meal.

Bill smiled at his son the entire time Michael filled his plate. "Me, I'm not much into Italian food as a rule, but this is nice."

"You've simply never had Italian food prepared correctly," Sloane scoffed. "If you had, you couldn't say such a thing."

"I lived in Milan for five years. Trust me, I know."

"Which five years was that?" Michael said, never looking up from the pasta he was twirling around his fork. "How old was I?"

The question hung in the silence for a moment before Bill replied, "The years you spent in high school and your first year of college." At first Nadia found it touching that he knew so precisely – then remembered that Bill Vaughn, unlike her own father, always had the choice to be with his child. It was a choice he had refused. A glimmer of Michael's anger reflected into her then, shining bright for an instant.

Her father smiled at her. "Nadia, I just realized – I don't even know where you went to college."

"Universidad de Buenos Aires." Stories welled up inside her, of her scholarship, the night jobs, the friends she'd made. "I had the greatest --"

Michael's hand, clutching his wineglass, slammed down on the edge of the table. Glass and wine sprayed in all directions, and before Nadia could react, Michael had pressed the sharp edge of his goblet against her father's throat.

"Michael, no!" Bill was on his feet, face red with either embarrassment or anger.

Her father remained calm – despite this, despite everything, he was so brave – as he said, "What is it you hope to accomplish, Mr. Vaughn?"

"I want a phone," Michael growled. His hand was shaking – not from lack of resolve, Nadia thought, but from weakness. He had eaten so little, the past few weeks. "I want a working phone, and I want Nadia to dial the number I'll call out to her."

"You want to call Sydney," her father said. He was so kind, even to the man holding broken glass against his jugular vein. "That's understandable. But it's impossible."

"It's not impossible if I've got a phone."

Nadia braced her hands against the edge of the table.

Already, Bill had begun to sweat. "You don't know what you're doing, son."

"Don't call me –"

Nadia swung her feet over the table, lightning-fast, and felt the thump-crunch of Vaughn's ribs against her toes. He collapsed to the floor, but not before she saw the bright crimson welling of blood at her father's throat.

"Papa!" she cried, as the guards descended upon Michael. "Papa, are you –"

"I'm fine, my dearest." He held his napkin to his neck, beaming at her even as the bloodstain spread. "It's not deep."

"I want a phone," Michael choked out, beneath the guards' fists. "I want – I want a phone –"

"Take him to his room," Bill said, his voice hoarse. "Be gentle with him."

"Papa, are you sure you're all right?"

"I'm safe, thanks to your bravery." His smile lit up his entire face, and he brushed his free hand against hers. "I've never been better."

Why was he so happy? Then Nadia realized – she had called him Papa. And from now on, she would never be able to call him anything else.

**

VII.

 

When it all began, Eric hadn't been able to reflect on the irony. He'd just been scared as hell for his best friend.

From the initial call – about Vaughn's abandoned car and the crushed cellphone they'd found nearby – Eric had gone into crazy mode. He'd driven out there, re-fingerprinted the car himself, taken samples from the steering wheel and the unused ashtray and the tire treads. You could tell a lot from mud, sometimes. Not this time.

He hadn't been forced to break it to Sydney; she'd just appeared at his side, three hours into the search. She had looked so heartbreakingly vulnerable – her slacks and jacket mismatched, her lovely face bare of makeup, her hair still rumpled from sleep. Only a few hours before, they'd been at a restaurant telling each other silly stories. Now she clutched his arm for support.

"We'll find him," Eric had said, and on the first day he believed it.

But the first day turned into the first week, and the first week turned into the first month. Quickly Eric and the others discerned that Vaughn hadn't been abducted from the location where his car had been found; the scene was way too clean for that. Yet traces of Vaughn's usual routes and paths revealed nothing. Had Vaughn realized he was being followed? Had he taken a detour that didn't do its job? Probably so. All that meant, in the end, was that they were devoid of any further clues.

Everyone shook their informants for any scrap of useful knowledge. That included Jack Bristow; Eric talked to him, not caring that Sydney would disapprove. If the man turned up anything useful, that was a good thing, and Syd could bitch Eric out about his sources later.

Eric went over every inch of Syd and Vaughn's apartment. He took samples from their bathtub, Vaughn's toothbrush, the mustard jar in the fridge: no evidence of poisons or biological weapons. Poking through the drawer that held a box of condoms and a vibrator felt beyond creepy, but Sydney, working at his side, was too focused to be embarrassed. He pored over their phone bills, surprised to see his own cell as the line most frequently dialed, and called all the unfamiliar numbers: a movie theatre, a car-detailing place, a wine merchant. Nothing useful.

All the while, he had to watch Sydney's slow disintegration. She hadn't been in such great shape before Vaughn left; now, it seemed to Eric that she was becoming paler and less substantial before his eyes – going transparent.

She didn't eat. She scarcely slept. He sat up with her nights, playing out her hunches, talking through her theories. It wasn't that he really believed in the hunches or the theories, not after a while; even his own considerable ability to hope could only carry him so far. But Sydney didn't need to be alone, so he needed to be with her.

And that was where the irony came in – the cruelty, the kicker, the part that kept Eric up nights long after he'd left Syd's apartment and wandered across the courtyard to his own bed.

I wanted Sydney to myself, he thought. I didn't want Vaughn to get her back. Be careful what you wish for, pal.

He hadn't wanted it like this – not ever, ever like this. Vaughn was the best friend he'd ever had or ever needed; the guy who'd kept him sane during CIA training, while all the other superfit guys were running laps around him. Vaughn was the guy who'd saved his life after Irina Derevko shot him in the throat, the one who had visited him in the hospital as often as Eric's own parents. Vaughn was the one who bought the beer at Lakers games, who fed Alan while Eric was on assignment, who'd asked Eric to be the best man at his wedding. (Okay, it was a total sham wedding set up by his psycho bride, but still, the thought counted for something.)

Even if he'd thought he ever stood a chance in hell of being with a woman like Sydney, Eric could have given up her for Vaughn's sake. Even if he had loved her. He could have given up a lot for his best friend.

But instead, his best friend was missing, and Vaughn's absence taunted Eric for the one small scrap of selfishness he'd allowed himself in their friendship. Sydney was his now, all his, and Eric had never wanted that less.

Worse: He wanted to take care of Syd, and she so badly needed it, but his guilt held him back. Then again, there were other ways of helping out.

"What are you working on, Mr. Weiss?" Jack Bristow said one day, six weeks after Vaughn's disappearance.

"Right now? I'm checking Vaughn's DNA pattern against hospital records again. Going nation by nation; he hasn't been admitted to any facilities in Finland today. Not that I was seriously hoping for that."

Jack's eyes were hard as he studied Eric; he hadn't been at the receiving end of that stare very often, which was just how Eric preferred it. "What were you hoping for?"

"Something. Anything. I don't know." The question put into sharp focus Eric's uncertainty about Vaughn, and he wished Jack would go find something else to do.

"Did Sydney devise this search pattern?"

"Syd? No, she's re-analyzing a lot of the Rambaldi work, running data, trying to find any links to Vaughn." As soon as he'd said this, Eric realized that Jack would have the information already. He wasn't asking about Sydney's efforts to find Vaughn; he was asking about Sydney herself. "She's still really motivated. Very focused. I mean, it doesn't look good, and she sees that. Syd's smart enough to face facts. But – she's tough enough to face them and keep going."

The furrowed line between Jack's brows smoothed as his face relaxed. "Continue what you're doing, Mr. Weiss." That was as close as the man got to "thanks," Eric figured.

That night, he arrived home only a few minutes before midnight. Despite the fact that Syd's records said she'd been in the office by 6 a.m., her lights were still on. Probably she was working. Still searching for Vaughn.

Eric wanted to go over there. He wanted to help her search, if she was searching; he wanted to comfort her, if she needed comforting. But those impulses were tangled up with other things he had wanted, less noble, more selfish. No, he thought, I'm not doing it. I'm not adding to the confusion.

But just as he went to his door, hers opened. A rectangle of golden light outlined Sydney's body; he couldn't see her face, and they lived too far across from each other for her to shout, but he understood that he was being summoned. Eric palmed his keys and walked toward her.

Once he was close enough, he could see the tracks of tears on her cheeks. She was having a bad night. "I heard your car."

"You don't have to explain. Not ever. You know that, right?"

She nodded and stepped inside her apartment, leaving Eric to follow. A wineglass sat nearly empty on the nearby end table, and Eric made a mental note to check the bottle in the fridge later to see how much she'd had. This was the first time since Vaughn's departure that he'd seen her drink, and though she seemed reasonably in control, he intended to know if it became a trend later.

Her feet were curled beneath her on the sofa; she wore a T-shirt and jeans, which Eric would have considered a positive sign in other circumstances – Syd hadn't allowed herself much time to relax since Vaughn's disappearance. The many knots of Kleenex in the nearby can paid testament to a crying jag that had lasted a long time.

Eric sat next to Sydney, waiting to follow her lead. Only after many minutes did she speak. "I was so tired when I came home tonight. Just – exhausted."

"You've been working hard."

"We're always working hard," she said, which Eric had to grant her. "But tonight, it was like, if I didn't get some sleep, I'd die. I stretched out on the bed in my work clothes, and I was just going to crash and deal with everything later, and I thought –" Syd swallowed hard. "I thought, I'm so glad I've got some time alone."

As her tears began again, Eric rubbed her back. "Syd, it's okay. It's natural to think stuff like that."

She shook her head. "I was happy Vaughn wasn't here. Because – after Lauren – he wasn't like himself, you know? I thought I was going to help him, but I wasn't helping him. I was too wrapped up in my own problems. He was – hard to be with, and I resented him for it even though it wasn't his fault, and now he's gone, and I feel so ashamed."

"Hey." Eric took one of her hands in his. "Everybody has rough times. You guys came by yours honestly, you know? It doesn't mean you didn't love each other." He felt a sharp jab of guilt for using the past tense, but fortunately Syd didn't catch it.

"I know. I know." Sydney wiped her eyes and gave him a watery smile. "Could you just hang out over here for a while? I know I'm not good company –"

"As long as you want."

Leaving Syd alone was NOT an option. Maybe he, too, had been selfish before Vaughn disappeared. Didn't matter. Not taking care of Sydney in a feeble attempt to guard against his own feelings was its own kind of selfishness.

This isn't about me, Eric thought. It's about her.

**

VIII.

 

Almost two months after the Toronto incident, Jack finally received the official report, confirming what he had already suspected to be true: The virus that had killed 11 guests in a single hotel was not Legionnaire's, as had been reported in the press, but a close cousin to the virus recovered from the bodies found in Rambaldi's cave. This one acted more slowly – requiring approximately 12-16 hours to kill the infected – but was still too fast to be an effective biological weapon against a mass population.

A test, Jack thought, as he entered his apartment. He made the usual cursory check of the front room – everything appeared undisturbed – then returned to his thoughts as he took off his jacket and began loosening his tie. How many tests would it require for Sloane to be confident of his work? How much more time did they have to find and stop him? Did they have any time left at all?

From the bathroom, Jack heard a soft splash.

His first thought was of an intruder. His second thought was that an intruder was unlikely to have broken in for the express purpose of washing his hands, and that he probably had problems with the plumbing. Jack took his handgun with him to the bathroom anyway. One quick kick forced the door open to reveal –

"Jack." Katya reclined in a bubble bath, lit only by a small candle she'd placed near the sink's edge. "Imagine. You had a gun in your pocket AND you're happy to see me."

He was in no mood for small talk; he and Katya had one issue between them that superseded everything else: "You tried to kill Sydney."

She was completely unruffled. "Yes. I came to explain why."

This, Jack felt, could have been accomplished in many ways that did not involve bubble baths. However, he understood her approach. Besides the blunt sexual invitation, Katya was also communicating other messages: that she was unarmed, alone and – he studied the fishtail curve of her legs, outlined beneath the bubbles – submissive.

Like Irina, Katya obviously found sex the only endurable way of offering an apology. Jack was not at all certain he intended to accept either, but he would hear the explanation.

"Remain still," he commanded. She raised an eyebrow but obeyed as he rolled up his shirtsleeves, picked the gun up once more, then knelt by the side of the tub. He dipped his free hand in the water and ran it around the edges of the tub, feeling the warm silk of her skin against the back of his hand. Although he hadn't seriously expected her to be hiding a knife or garrote beneath the bubbles, it was just as well to be sure. "All right," he said, withdrawing his hand. "Explain."

Katya breathed out, as if less certain of her purpose now that she had come to it. "I believed Sydney to be the source of the Rain of Gold."

"That's absurd."

"It's incorrect, as I now know. But it's not absurd."

"Of course it is." Jack hesitated, then said the words aloud for the first time: "Sydney is the Irenicon."

"We know that now." Katya frowned at him, becoming slightly impatient. "After Genga and Toronto, we know the role Nadia played – and the role Sydney will have to play. But before that? How could you be certain?"

There was no answer to this question. Jack remembered his exasperation with a 5-year-old Sydney who, dissatisfied with his cursory summary of optics, kept demanding to know WHY the sky was blue. "It's obvious."

"You assumed. And the fact that your assumption was correct doesn't make it any less irresponsible." Katya rolled her eyes and sank a bit deeper beneath the water. "Irina told me once that every parent is a monster. Once you have a baby, she says, there is a part of you that would happily watch the rest of the world burn, if it were necessary to keep your own child alive and safe."

Jack felt that he had many crimes to answer for in his life, but protecting Sydney was not among them. "That doesn't explain your attack on Michael Vaughn, or your liberation of Lauren Reed."

"The information given to me about Sydney came from the Covenant. They made contact not long after my last visit to you." Her eyes darted up to his, and Jack could not help remembering the way her bare skin had felt against the back of his hand. "Perhaps they were manipulating me. But I have reason to believe that Arvin Sloane was behind the misinformation, that he was manipulating us all."

That was all too plausible. The Covenant had incentive to preserve Sydney's life when she had been in their custody three years before – but once Nadia's existence was known and discovered, if they had misidentified which sister would play which role –

"The Covenant knew I could move freely and without suspicion. I was given the mission to murder Mr. Vaughn, to remove him as a threat to their operatives, and to work with Lauren Reed to kill Sydney in her turn. Fortunately, I underestimated Sydney's ability to fight back."

Vaughn's wound, while serious and incapacitating, would not have been fatal as long as he received medical attention within a few hours; they had never satisfactorily identified the source of the 911 call that had summoned the ambulance. If Katya had wanted Vaughn dead, he would have died that day.

Was it possible Katya was still lying to him? Jack knew that it was, but on the balance he thought it improbable. Her explanation fit all the facts. "You never considered telling me about the Covenant's information."

Laughing, Katya splashed suds in his general direction; he felt the warm water soaking through the rolled sleeve of his shirt. "You would have killed me where I stood. And if what I then believed had been true, the implications would have been far greater than my own wretched fate." Then she became quieter. "What I believed was not true. The gravity of my mistake sickens me. I can only apologize to you. And to Sydney, if you think she'll talk to me."

"I couldn't say. We barely speak." When Katya raised her eyebrows, Jack sighed. "Before Lauren Reed informed her otherwise, Sydney had never understood the greater implications of Project Christmas. She still doesn't know everything. But she knows enough to feel – violated."

Katya watched him in silence for a few moments, then tentatively stretched her hand toward his face. Jack allowed her to brush two damp fingers along his cheek. The surge of longing for her that struck him surprised him in its intensity. She whispered, "I'm sorry."

"So am I." After a moment's consideration, he unloaded the gun and set it aside. "I meant to tell her, eventually. I thought – we were doing so much better, and I thought Sydney might be ready to hear some part of the truth. I never thought it would be easy, but I thought it was – possible. I was wrong."

"She'll understand someday. You know that." Her thumb brushed the edge of his lower lip. The bubble bath had perfumed her skin, and Jack breathed in, absorbing it. The bruising memories of the past few months were fading into softer relief as he began to think only of the moment, only of sensation, only of Katya. "Is there anything I can do?"

"I could use a bath," Jack said.

Katya smiled.

**

IX.

 

Sydney stopped at the Walgreen's on her way to work; she drove by it nearly every day, but had never actually gone there before. These days, she was trying to make her moves as unpredictable as possible. Besides, the past few weeks, she hadn't been taking care of herself properly – this gave her a chance to amend that. As she walked by items, she grabbed anything that looked useful: vitamins, facial scrub, manicure scissors. Even during checkout, she kept selecting things, and after she'd paid with her credit card, Syd grabbed one more thing. "I'm sorry – I'm so absent-minded these days –"

"Don't worry about it, honey," the checkout lady said. "I've been there."

I doubt it, Sydney thought, but she smiled as she dropped a $20 bill on the counter.

She walked into the CIA with her shopping bag; when she caught a glimpse of her father at the far end of the hallway, it seemed like a good time to duck into the bathroom. Nobody else was there.

Minutes later, after she'd dropped the receipts for both her credit card and cash purchases into the toilet, Sydney remained in the stall, staring down at the small plastic stick in her hand.

A purple plus sign stared back at her.

That Friday night, Sydney thought tiredly. The one when I drank as much as Vaughn did, and we didn't even make it to the bedroom, and – well, the best laid plans --

Sydney knew she ought to feel something powerful – fear or joy or horror or love. But at the moment she couldn't process anything that enormous or complicated; all she could think was that she'd have to go back to the Walgreen's in the early hours of the morning. She had avoided creating an electronic record of her purchase, but she'd need to destroy the security tapes too.

Nothing in her life – not her dearest loves or her deepest grief – had ever been a secret. It had all been used against her, by her father, her mother, Arvin Sloane, the Covenant, and probably countless others she couldn't even guess.

For as long as she could manage it, Sydney decided, her pregnancy would be different.

**


	6. Chapter 6

_ Ah, there is no comfort in the covens of the witch,  
Some very clever doctor went and sterilized the bitch,  
And the only man of energy, yes, the revolution's pride,  
He trained a hundred women just to kill an unborn child._

And there are no letters in the mailbox,  
Oh, no, there are no grapes upon the vine,  
And there are, there are no chocolates in your boxes anymore,  
And there are no diamonds in your mine.

\--Leonard Cohen, "Diamonds in the Mine"

 

IRENICON: Book Three

 

I.

 

**Bangkok, Thailand **

 

The day had come at last. A lifetime's work – no, hundreds, even thousands of lifetimes' work – was complete. Rambaldi had foreseen this day, but many generations had to live and work and hope and die to bring this to pass.

The Rain of Gold, Gerard Cuvee thought, gazing down at the test tubes set into protective foam, glittering like jewels in the lights from the nightclubs outside. Rambaldi showed us the way, but he made us work for this. He made us choose. And now – all his promise would at last be fulfilled.

It was enough to turn a man into an idealist.

They began immediately. He sent men into nightclubs, restaurants and most importantly of all the major Southeast Asian airports, opening the vials as they went. No effort was made to get through security and smuggle them aboard commercial aircraft; the infected passengers would be able to do that themselves. For his part, Cuvee kept a vial open in his pocket one night when he drank champagne on a high balcony, surrounded by young girls fighting for his attentions. The experience was curiously unsatisfying, though he supposed it would all seem more real after the deaths began.

Soon, those at the very center of Rambaldi's work would draw together once more; Irina Derevko would be among them, though whether triumphant or chastened Cuvee could not begin to guess. He longed to see her again, both to repay her for her childish stunt in Kashmir – had that fool of a husband of hers actually been convinced by one slap? – and to take her back into his bed.

How he remembered her as a young woman in prison, under his control. She had played the game so beautifully; Cuvee was old enough now to admit that she had gained the better of him over time. He had ordered their assignations at first, not out of desire but from his anger at her confusion, at the depths of delusion about Bristow that her years in the United States had created. But soon Irina was coming to him willingly, and before long he had been as in thrall to her as she had been to him. During those nights they would lie together and talk about the Rain of Gold – what it would mean, how it would change the world, how it would change them. Sometimes Cuvee thought his life had held no finer moments than these – Irina's naked body next to his, her husky voice promising him eternity.

That promise, at least, Irina had kept. How he would thank her -- after punishing her. Or perhaps the two activities could be combined. And in the years to come, their pleasures need never end. Cuvee laughed and ordered more champagne.

Twelve days later, the fever started. At first, Cuvee was certain it was no more than hypochondria. The first rumors of something "going around" were being heard in the clubs, and that was why his head hurt and his skin felt hot. It might as well be a reaction to the cognac he'd been drinking as any illness.

By the time he awoke the next morning, Cuvee knew he was dying.

He had begged Sloane for the privilege of releasing the virus. Begged! All the while, Sloane had been manipulating him -- withholding the vital information that a final set of inoculations was needed. Cuvee had no new intel to reveal this, but he needed none; Sloane's duplicity was clear enough, now that it had cost him his life.

Cuvee had been played for a fool, and now he would die. On the very cusp of eternity – he would die. For hours, Cuvee screamed out his rage, pulling at his hair until his scalp bled. Who else had known about this? Who else had laughed while his death warrant was signed? Cuvee imagined Irina, her hair piled atop her head, blood-red lips revealing her broad, wicked smile. If only he had strangled her while he'd had the opportunity. But all such chances were lost now.

Only a few days of life remained, and only one purpose was left to him: To know that Arvin Sloane would die.

Many people might share that goal, Cuvee thought. But who else would have both the ability and the will to destroy Arvin Sloane. As he lay in bed, sweating and shaking, Cuvee amused himself for a few hours by envisioning Jack Bristow's reaction if a partnership were suggested.

When his throat began to swell, and his eyes became so hot with blood that they hurt, Cuvee stopped wasting time. He made his choice, made the call.

On the eighth day – when the chills wracking his body had become their own agony – Cuvee heard his door's lock being smashed. Looters? Burglars? When the two figures appeared in the doorway, taking shape from the darkness, Cuvee rasped, "Thank God it's you."

"I strongly suspect God has no part in this," Julian Sark replied. Next to him, Olivia Reed pulled her white cowl hood away from her shining hair.

"You can get to Sloane?" Cuvee demanded. "He is – the first priority –"

"Agreed," Olivia replied. She came and sat by his bedside, brushing her hand over his forehead. Strange, to remember that this woman was a mother. "Julian and I are more interested in Michael Vaughn, of course, but rumor has it they're in the same location. Two birds, one stone. You know the English saying, don't you?"

"Mexico. On the Pacific Coast. I don't know the codes or frequencies they're using – but within that area – surely he can't hide forever –"

He watched Olivia's face as she glanced over her shoulder at Sark. Obviously both of them had hoped for more information, or they would not have come so far; Cuvee would not have cared about inconveniencing them even if he had been in less dire straits.

"Mexico," Sark repeated. "Very well. It's more than we knew before."

"Promise me. Promise me you'll gut Arvin Sloane before he dies."

"My pleasure." Olivia's voice was sweet, a Congressman's wife making patter, as she rose to refill his water glass. "After Mr. Vaughn has been seen to."

"And Irina. Irina Derevko." Was she involved in this or not? Cuvee didn't know, and he didn't give a damn. If he was to have no place in Rambaldi's paradise, neither was she. "Kill that worthless bitch, if you can. Promise me that."

Sark tilted his head, then raised his pistol to aim it at Cuvee's face.

Cuvee only had time to wonder: Is this mercy?

**

II.

 

"And how do you feel about that?" Dr. Barnett said.

"I feel confused. Guilty. Angry." Sydney wanted to recline on the leather couch – these days, any chance to lie down felt like a blessing. But she couldn't afford to relax that much, not here. "This disease that's showing up in Asia – apparently Sloane released the virus, and somehow – they're not clear -- it might have something to do with my sister. I'm the one who rescued her. I brought Nadia and Sloane together. And this is how the two of them repaid me."

"Do you think their actions are intended to hurt you?"

"I think they've probably forgotten all about me. If Sloane's forgotten me, I don't care. That would actually be a good thing. But Nadia is my sister. When we found each other, I thought it meant something to her. It did to me. But I never really knew her. It's just like –" Sydney's voice trailed away.

Dr. Barnett got that gleam in her eye that meant she'd spotted a vulnerability. In Sydney's opinion, this woman was far too skilled at her work. "It's just like what, Sydney?"

Sydney stared down at her shoes. "It's just like my father said. He told me that I didn't know what kind of person Nadia was, and that I shouldn't assume she wasn't an enemy. But I didn't listen." Her chagrin was quickly swallowed up in anger. "Of course, he knew where Nadia was almost her whole life. From the day he found out that she was my sister, he could have led me right to her. Or warned me about her with some actual facts, instead of vague innuendo. But instead he was just going to murder her in cold blood. As mad as I am at her, I still can't believe that he was willing to kill her. Just because she reminded him of something painful – it makes me sick."

"You're still entirely estranged from your father, then."

"That's not going to change. So you can stop asking about it any week now." Sydney took a deep breath and refocused. These sessions, supposedly for the purpose of venting her emotions, were instead the times when she had to be the most controlled. "I feel like there are so many secrets surrounding me. My father's, my mother's, my sister's – my own."

"Do you get tired of carrying those secrets around?"

The obstetrician appointments were made under an alias Sydney had never used before; she paid for them in cash, drawing out an extra $20 or two every day from the ATM, never too much at once. The prenatal vitamins had been buried deep in a canister of sugar; Sydney only used the sugar for coffee anyway, and she had vigilantly steered clear of caffeine for the previous two months. Her ruses had paid off: Nobody knew. The baby was still her secret – still her own. "No," Sydney said. "Sometimes I wish I could keep these secrets forever. Then they couldn't – confuse things."

"Do you think that's the situation your father's in?"

Sydney had to laugh. "No. Oh, God, no. I seriously doubt it."

Dr. Barnett was obviously confused by Sydney's sudden mirth, but she continued. "Are you considering going back to field duty?"

"No. Not yet, anyway." Dixon had accepted Sydney's request to work only in the office easily enough. She had told him that her grief for Vaughn was clouding her judgment, which was true as far as it went. But soon he would expect her to return to duty; everyone would. And that meant running, jumping, kicking and getting kicked, and a thousand other things Sydney wasn't planning on doing anytime soon.

Besides, if Marshall put her in one of the rubber dresses he seemed to think were ideal camouflage for all occasions, it would immediately be evident that she'd gained weight – even if her pregnancy wasn't truly showing yet. And within another few weeks, the new shape of her abdomen would become unmistakable.

Then it would be time to run.

"I get the sense there's something you're not sharing with me." Alarmed, Sydney stared at Dr. Barnett, who had folded her arms in her lap, a sign that she was especially intent. "These sessions are for you, of course. If you're not comfortable discussing some element of your grieving process right now, that's absolutely fine. But if something's weighing on your mind, it might feel good to bring it into the open."

How best to distract her? Sydney started with the first and most obvious concern that popped into her head. "I know I'm not ready to go back into the field. But still – I feel like I'm not doing anything of value here. Sometimes it feels like nothing I'm doing could ever be important, compared to finding Vaughn or stopping Sloane. And I haven't been able to do either."

"I know that feeling." Dr. Barnett's voice sounded different than it ever had before; with a start, Sydney realized that her therapist's attention had, for once, ceased to be focused on her patient. Dr. Barnett was staring down at the carpet now, her expression distant. When Sydney caught her eye, Dr. Barnett smiled ruefully. "I'm in charge of devising potential psych counter-ops against Arvin Sloane. Assessing potential weaknesses in his mental defenses, ways we might be able to penetrate them through manipulations or lies."

"I didn't know you did that kind of thing."

"Usually, I don't. But I volunteered." Collecting herself, Dr. Barnett straightened up. "Lies have a lot of different meanings, Sydney. So do secrets."

Was this another hint to talk about her father? Sydney immediately plunged into talking about Vaughn, which ate up the rest of the hour. Then she was free to escape examination for a while yet.

Sydney had never considered telling Dr. Barnett about her pregnancy. Technically, the rules of confidentiality should have protected their discussions, but Sydney was no longer willing to trust anyone unless utterly necessary. If she were going to tell anyone, she would have told Eric – but that would put him in the position of having to lie to the CIA after she left, and she didn't want to do that to him.

Her plans, up until the point of her departure, were all rock-solid; Sydney had mapped out every step, every concealment, every protection. But after departure, her plans grew far fuzzier. Oh, she knew where she would live, where the money would come from – but Sydney could no more imagine the life she would lead at that point than she could imagine living on the moon. Despite the added weight, despite the heaviness in her breasts, despite the crazed longing for bananas that struck at all hours of the day and night, it still didn't seem as if she could really be pregnant.

She'd always wanted to have children, in an abstract sort of way. Unlike most of her friends in school, she had never planned out names or designed nurseries, never gotten gooey about tiny hats or socks. Sydney had figured her maternal instincts would click in when the time was right. The time was now T minus 26 weeks, and any maternal instinct had yet to take effect. Sometimes, for hours or even a day at a time, the mere fact of her pregnancy seemed to slip from her mind, only to jolt back into focus as she lay in bed trying to sleep.

How could she get excited about a baby when she couldn't buy a crib or clothes, when she couldn't share her news, when she couldn't even tell the father? Sometimes Sydney even wished for morning sickness as some kind of reminder. Never had her perfect health seemed more perverse. The due date felt more like a deadline for some vital project than the day she would see her first child.

But whenever Sydney imagined people learning of her pregnancy – whenever she thought about the people who might try to take her child away, just as Nadia had been taken from her own mother – a surge of fear overcame her.

Maybe her feelings for her baby were there after all. Maybe she'd just buried them deep, for her child's safety and her own.

Once I'm gone, Sydney decided, I'll feel different. I can start buying clothes for the layette, and diapers and rattles. I'll be able to wear maternity clothes. I can tell the new people I meet about the baby, and talk with them about names. Maybe it will all be real then.

And all of this – the CIA, Rambaldi, my father and everything else I've ever known – all of this will be what's unreal.

**

III.

 

Vaughn spent the first week following his failed attack in bed.

Not resting, not taking it easy – just lying in bed, every moment of the day that he wasn't crawling to the bathroom or back. As he ate and drank almost nothing, he didn't have to leave the bed often. Vaughn learned that he could sleep for ten hours, remain awake and staring at the ceiling for only a short time, then sleep for ten more. Day and night were quickly reduced to differences in the slim bands of light that outlined the shades.

Whenever his father came in, Vaughn just closed his eyes until he went away again. He lost the ability to dream, and it seemed as though he no longer had to think, either.

On the eighth day, when his bedroom door opened once more, Vaughn shut his eyes. But the voice he heard was not his father's cajoling.

"This is ridiculous," Nadia said. "They're almost ready to hook you up to an IV, you know."

Vaughn opened his eyes, more out of surprise than anything else. Nadia was carrying a steaming mug in one hand; the other was on her hip as she frowned at him. "Go away," he croaked.

"If you're on a hunger strike," she replied, "you should remember – the one way to make sure you never see Sydney again is to die here."

He didn't respond, though it seemed to his fevered mind that Nadia, untrustworthy though she was, had made some degree of sense.

She set the mug on his bedside table. "Just chicken broth. I don't think you're up for anything else. If you don't drink this, in a few days they'll take away the only control you have left." Then she shrugged. "It's your decision." With that, she left.

The chicken broth was good – homemade, rich and savory. Was that her work or the cook's? Not that it mattered, really, but Vaughn was vaguely curious.

A few hours later, she brought him more broth and a few crackers; to Vaughn's vast relief, she said nothing at all, nor expected anything from him. After that, he fell asleep again – but the sleep was different this time. It felt less like passing out and more like real rest.

On the next day, Nadia wordlessly added toast to his diet. Two days after that, she began bringing eggs. Vaughn found that he couldn't sleep as many hours in a row, though he still closed his eyes when his father walked in.

"You should talk to him," Nadia said a day later, as he slowly ate a chicken sandwich. "He just wants to know you."

"Not that badly," Vaughn pointed out. "Or he would have looked me up sometime during the past quarter century."

"Not necessarily."

Sloane had clearly won her over. Should he risk confronting her about that? No. At least – not yet. "This sandwich is great."

"Thanks. I hope you can make them yourself. After today, you're on your own in the kitchen." When he stared at Nadia, she smiled. "Did you think I was going to feed you forever?"

"No." Then, unable to believe that he'd never thought of saying it before, Vaughn added, "Thank you for all of this." Nadia only shrugged.

That evening Vaughn got up and moved around the house, avoiding the others as much as possible. It seemed to him as though he had awakened from one long, nightmare-ridden sleep, something that had gripped him ever since he'd come to on the plane with his father –

No, Vaughn realized. Since he'd first learned that Lauren was with the Covenant. It had been that long since he'd felt remotely human – maybe even longer.

His father's eyes followed him as he walked the same paths, over and over again, stairwell to hallway to deck. But neither his father nor Sloane made any effort to speak to him, for which Vaughn was grateful. The one moment of contact came while he was standing on the deck, looking out at the moonlit waves, breathing in the first fresh air he'd had in months. Nadia joined him, her dark hair rippling in the breeze. "I saw a leopard once at the zoo," she said. "Pacing his cage."

"This is a cage. Don't get confused about that."

She ducked her head away and went back inside; Vaughn felt a vague stirring of pity for her, but it was gone as soon as it had come.

Once again, Vaughn went to bed early, but this time he did not fall asleep. He remained still, listening to the sounds of the house as they became quieter, and wished idly that he had tried to convince Nadia to make him at least one more sandwich. Now that his appetite had returned, his body seemed to want to make up for all those lost meals. Just as well, Vaughn decided. A grumbling stomach would give him an excuse for wandering around late at night.

After the house had been entirely quiet for an hour, Vaughn slowly walked downstairs, then stepped out onto the deck. No alarms sounded, which was what he'd expected. They were counting on guards at the perimeter to prevent escape; fortunately, Vaughn didn't intend to make another escape attempt for a while. His previous efforts – disorganized and borderline suicidal as they had been – had taught him that the guards kept their distance but knew their business.

After a cursory check to make sure the guards weren't watching him that moment, Vaughn half-turned, grabbed the railing and swung down. His feet just reached the latch for a lower window.

His pacing of the house had revealed that this window didn't correlate to any of the rooms Vaughn had been able to count. What might be in a secret room?

He dropped to the sand, opened the window – no alarm, good – and did his best to get himself through the small window. The ledge caught him hard under the ribs, just where Nadia had kicked him during his attack on Sloane. Biting his lip hard to keep from crying out, Vaughn had to slump against the floor for a few moments to catch his breath. A thin strip of skin had been scraped away. Tears of pain welled under his eyes, but it didn't matter, as long as he'd gotten someplace worth going.

As he blinked in the dark, Vaughn realized he'd just launched himself into a fairly ordinary office. But this office held a fairly ordinary computer. Computers meant e-mail.

Thank God, thank God, thank God. He unplugged the speakers, then turned the machine on, careful to note everything he touched in order to wipe it down later. The room's one door probably led into Sloane's bedroom, or his father's; quiet was essential. But all he needed was one e-mail to CIA headquarters, and it would be traced within a day. Sydney would come here and get him herself.

Except – he clicked through the drives, through every folder he could find, and it was true -- there was no internet access. No Explorer, no Netscape, no Foxfire, not one single goddamned thing! No phone jacks in the walls, either. Another check revealed that the machine didn't have a modem or an Ethernet card; the settings included no IP address.

Vaughn clenched his hands into fists, wanting to punch the wall or the table or the monitor that glowed at him, innocent of any inadequacy. What the hell was the point of a computer without any internet access?

A computer you couldn't send anything out of was a computer nobody could hack into. Such a computer would be a very, very good place to store important information. The most important information you had –

He stared at the monitor a few minutes more, noticing for the first time the wallpaper that had been chosen: a photograph of the many-spired cathedral of Milan. It was a sight that might be familiar and welcome to a man who had spent five years there, including the day his son gave the valedictory speech to his senior class about living up to a heroic legacy.

This computer wasn't the rescue Vaughn had hoped for. But it was an opportunity.

**

IV.

 

The yellow flowerpot on the windowsill meant Katya was inside.

Never had they discussed the signal; she'd done it from her second visit, he had noticed immediately, and she had understood when he wasn't surprised to see her. That time, she'd come to tell him about the death of Gerard Cuvee. Jack didn't think it was his pleasure in the news that led to the two of them to the bedroom.

The next few visits, she offered other information – Sark had been sighted in Istanbul, and was rumored not to be traveling alone; Sloane's bank accounts in the British Virgin Islands had been emptied and closed. All of this was potentially useful. But Jack was neither shocked nor displeased the first time he came home late at night to find Katya dozing in his bed, for no other reason than she wanted him to join her there. They were long past needing excuses.

Jack had forgotten what it was like to lose himself in a woman's arms. During his strange reunion with Irina, that particular pleasure had been denied to him; whatever it was they'd been to each other then, it hadn't been about comfort.

Then again, given the secrets Irina had kept from him then, the lies she still told him while they sought Sydney's killers, maybe it was just as well he didn't really know what he'd been to her then. It could only have been some form of a joke.

With Katya, everything was simpler. They were two bodies, taking pleasure and giving it freely, without demands, without words. Sometimes, when he gasped his climax against her shoulder or back, Jack thought that was all there ever was or had been; everything else he'd ever felt for a woman was only the invention of an overheated mind.

"You never talk, afterward," she said once, while his head still lay on her naked belly.

"Do you want me to talk?"

"God, no. I meant it as a compliment. You're so wonderfully –" Katya had hesitated, then finished, "—contained."

Jack neither knew what that meant nor cared. He just fell asleep, one arm around her.

And yet the thrill of anticipation he felt when he came home and saw the flowerpot was not entirely physical. (However, he considered the physical reaction interestingly Pavlovian.) Katya was the only person who understood the whole story, who knew his history entire; it was a strange luxury, knowing that there was nothing to conceal, nothing left to hide. Besides, she was pleasant company, or so it seemed on the occasions when they talked.

So on that early September night, when another set of leads on Sloane turned out to be dead ends and Sydney had refused to give him even so much as an "Agent Bristow" in three meetings, Jack smiled at the flash of yellow on the windowsill. He went up the front steps two at a time.

Katya sat on a wooden chair against the wall, one he never used. She was fully dressed, hands folded in her lap; he noticed that she held a pale envelope. "I didn't expect to see you so soon," Jack said – their last assignation had been only five days before. As he bent to kiss her cheek, he added, "Nice surprise."

"A surprise, yes. Whether you'll think it's nice or not, I couldn't say."

Had her allegiances changed? Jack tensed, then realized the expression in her face was more sad than anything else. "What's wrong?"

"I received this at a drop box three days ago," Katya said, lifting the envelope. "From Irina."

They'd always made it a point not to discuss Irina unless it was necessary. Jack knew it was useless to pretend indifference. "What is it?"

"The last thing I ever thought to receive from her. An explanation." She hesitated, then held it out to him; Jack could see Irina's jagged script in blue ink, narrow and tall like a seismograph. The postal marks on the envelope appeared to have come from the United Kingdom. "It is written solely for me – I don't think she has any idea you and I are still in contact. Though we can never really know what Irina realizes and what she doesn't."

"If it's for you, why are you offering it to me?"

Katya gazed up at him, studying his reaction carefully. "Because she will never tell you any of this. And I think this should be known between you."

An explanation. As though there could be any explanation, any reason that would excuse or condone what Irina had done. How could there be any explanation for the scale of her betrayal? Some sins did not allow vindication.

But as Jack stared at the envelope, he realized that – deep down – he still believed it was possible. And that was why he didn't want to read the letter.

If he read the letter, Irina would explain. And if the explanation made sense (even though it couldn't, even though it was impossible), then Jack would have to consider it. Even if it were a lie (and of course this too was a lie, everything she said was a lie), he would come to believe it. He would tell himself that he didn't believe it until the day came when he did, and then his anger would abate. And his anger was his only protection against her now, against love and weakness and hope. He had spent thirty years of his life shackled to Irina Derevko or her memory; that was long enough.

"I don't want it," Jack said.

"Don't make me read it to you." Katya stood and kissed him – arms around his neck mouth opening beneath his, so instantly passionate that Jack hoped she had forgotten the damn letter. If not, he was beginning to have some very definite ideas about how to make her forget. Instead she pulled away and whispered, "Let me be generous, for once in my life."

If she had made it about him, or about Irina, he would never have touched the letter. But Katya had asked him for something for herself – the one thing she had never done before, which meant it was the one thing he could not refuse her.

Jack took the letter and read it. Every puzzle piece clicked into place, so neatly that he couldn't believe he hadn't seen it before. It couldn't be true – except that it was true. He could sense the order of it running through the events that surrounded them, the same way he could see patterns on a chessboard or in a game of Go. It explained too much not to be true. The only thing it didn't explain was his wife's secrecy.

Maybe he was only her fool once more. But Jack could not make himself believe that.

"You see why I had to give you this, Jack."

"Yes." He felt as though he might start shaking. On all sides, he was surrounded – by hope, and weakness, and love. Nothing protected him any longer.

"If she contacts me again, I'll let you know." Katya kissed Jack on the cheek.

As she walked to the door, Jack said, "Katya – thank you. You didn't have to do this."

"Don't remind me," she said, shaking her head as she went out. A few moments later, her hand appeared at the window, pulling away the yellow flowerpot. Jack understood he would not see it again.

**


	7. Chapter 7

V.

 

"Michael's talking to his father."

Her papa looked up from his reading and smiled at her. "Well. That's good news. I'm certain Bill is happy."

Too late, Nadia realized that she had betrayed too great an interest in Michael Vaughn, or at least in his relationship to his father. Then she wondered why she was afraid to let Papa know how she felt – if she felt anything at all, which she preferred to think she didn't. To cover her tracks, she quickly added, "I think Michael wants to find out how all this began. Rambaldi. The followers."

"Are they discussing that?" Papa's voice was sharper now.

"No. They're talking about Michael's high-school hockey team." She could envision him, swathed in padding and mask, fast and deadly on the ice. "But I don't imagine that's Michael's goal, do you?"

Papa nodded approvingly, and his smile was warmer now. "You should pay attention conversation. There's plenty you have to learn, too. And we can talk about what you've learned, when you're done."

Nadia realized, as she padded down the carpeted steps of the spiral staircase, that this was only her second spying mission. Perhaps it would go better than the first one.

"So my roommate shows up and he's this seven-foot tall – no exaggeration – okay, only a little exaggeration – Rastafarian." As Michael held up a hand to describe the roommate, Bill laughed. They were sitting in the main room, on chairs that faced each other. Bill leaned forward, body language open; Michael's back was upright, stiff against the chair, with his arms folded in front of him. They weren't really interacting like father and son, then, nor even friends – but it was obviously progress. "This guy was called Weird Andy. He called HIMSELF that, which gives you a pretty good idea of his general personality. I never so much as held a joint in my hands, but there is no way I would have passed a drug screen. My clothes reeked of dope, and I had the munchies nonstop. Gained ten pounds."

Bill was grinning, and he only glanced over at Nadia for a moment as she walked past them to the deck. She didn't slide the door all the way shut, behind them. It would be more helpful to watch their faces and gauge reactions, but for the time being, hearing would have to do. "Weird Andy sounds like quite a character. Don't tell me – you guys ended up being best friends your whole lives."

"Not exactly. Weird Andy got busted for possession with intent to sell in February of my freshman year. Had no idea who I was going to end up living with – they assigned me a guy at random. He'd had a private room until he burned it down with a candle he was using to set a romantic mood with some girl." Michael paused, then said, "Eric Weiss. That was his name. And he ended up being my best friend my whole life."

"I know that name," Bill said. Nadia thought she'd heard it also.

"When they recruited me for the CIA, they ended up recruiting Weiss too." Michael sounded stranger now – as though the memories were harder for him. "I knew they'd come for me someday, you know. Because of you. So I tried to live right. Weiss and I, we hung out so much that we ended up taking a lot of the same courses, learning a lot of the same languages. We'd leave each other notes around the dorm room in Italian and German. Insults, once we learned them. Anyway, by the time they came to recruit me, they'd already checked Weiss out too. We were both auditioning for the CIA the whole time. He just didn't know it."

A few moments of silence followed. Nadia counted the waves – three, four, five.

"It bothers you," Bill said. "That you brought Weiss into this life."

"Of course it does."

"What you're saying is that you don't understand why I let you come into this life."

"You didn't recruit me into the CIA. Obviously."

"I never did anything to prevent it. And now I've brought you into this."

"Whatever this is," Michael said, and he was good – just the right note of casual and not-casual, of angry and curious, and even yearning. If he hadn't been speaking to another spy, it might have been believable. Then again, perhaps he understood that perfectly well, and was just giving his father the reaction he expected.

Bill was grave as he said, "When I first took you from Los Angeles, I told you that you deserved an explanation. And when the time is right, Michael, I promise you – you will know everything."

"When exactly is the time going to be right? I've been gone – Christ, three months now –"

"Mike. Listen to me, okay? I know that, as far as you know, I haven't done a lot to earn your trust. But there are other forces at work here. The Covenant – they're not the holy circle they once claimed to be. What's been set loose – we have to see how that's going to play out."

Michael breathed out heavily. "You're not even trying to be straight with me."

"Give it time. That's all I ask."

"Mom cried herself to sleep every night for years." The scrape of wood on wood could only have been Michael standing up and pushing back his chair. "Years, Dad."

Nadia thought the first interview gave her little to report, but much to think about. That was, if she intended to think about Michael Vaughn – and perhaps she did.

**

The next night, Michael said, "Give me enough credit to know this isn't just an extended vacation. Even if we are in a beach house."

"We're waiting for some things to cool down," Bill said. "You'll be grateful for this, eventually."

"I sincerely doubt that." But Michael didn't get up and leave. It had taken Nadia considerable time to figure out the exact angle to position her makeup mirror on the stair railing above the living room; she had to lie on the floor and crane her neck to watch for an extended period of time, but she could more or less see what was going on without being seen. Viewing facial expressions would help her analysis.

She'd never noticed what a nice back Michael had before.

Bill sighed, and for the first time it struck Nadia just how much like Michael he looked – if Michael were decades older and far more bitter. "Mike – ask your questions. I don't promise answers. But if I can tell you, I will."

"Every time I ask something, you clam up. How about you start talking? Just tell me what you can tell me." After a moment's pause, Michael added, voice low, "Give me something to go on here. Anything."

For a while, everything was quiet. Her ears strained so hard to hear that she could feel them pricking. Nadia shifted slightly on the carpet, which was bristly underneath her back, though hopefully not bristly enough to make noise. The mirror method left much to be desired. If only she had somebody who could invent spectacular spying gadgets for her, some bizarre genius like Q in the James Bond films. But, of course, those were films, not real life.

At last, Bill said, "Do you know about Project Christmas?"

"A little. I know there was a layer that was about indoctrinating children as spies from an early age. But Sydney found out that there was more to it than that. That she was born into the program – just like I was."

"You didn't stay in," Bill said. "You didn't have the genes for it. I was kind of a long shot as it was, and your mom – she never knew anything about this. So nobody programmed you. Not ever."

Michael paused before saying, "Okay. But what happened to the kids who did stay in? What was Sydney a part of?"

"Project Christmas – the name was a pun, you know. On the Second Coming. The U. S. government had been tracking Rambaldi's work for more than 200 years–"

"Jesus."

"—and they knew that several people important to the unfolding of Rambaldi's ultimate prophecies were about to be born. So in the late 1960s, they put Project Christmas together. They recruited people into the CIA whose bloodlines suggested that they might be the fathers of the children Rambaldi wrote about."

"Not mothers?"

"Not as full agents, no. Son, the world was different before the sexual revolution."

"No doubt." Bill laughed, and Michael chimed in. Though Michael's laughter sounded forced, Nadia still wished she'd kicked him a little harder when she'd had the chance.

Bill continued, "Your mother wasn't one of those. We were all free to marry whomever we wanted; I loved your mom, and I chose her. I want you to understand that."

"Glad to know." Michael didn't sound glad, but Nadia suspected he was sincere. "But Sydney – she was Jack Bristow's daughter with Irina Derevko."

My mother, Nadia thought. She gripped the plastic oval of her mirror harder, trying to control her emotional response to the mention of the mother she'd never known.

"I first knew Irina as Laura West," Bill said. "Beautiful girl. You see, a select few women whose bloodlines looked promising were taken into the program too. They were allowed to learn a little about the true work, do some research on the side. Laura West was one of these. Of course, the KGB planted Laura there; the Russians were tracking Rambaldi too, but their program was years behind. No doubt they realized what they had in Irina, and wanted her at the core of the action."

"And Derevko learned everything about Project Christmas." Good, Nadia thought, surprised to find herself urging on her mother.

"What she couldn't get through her own access she got from Jack Bristow. That man – " Bill swore under his breath. Nadia's own memories of Jack Bristow were limited to faint glimpses of a gray, bland, yet menacing figure who sat on the far side of the room. "He never understood what Rambaldi was about, not really. Because of that, he blabbed every damned thing to his wife. I don't blame the guy for falling for her – she had a face that would make a man do stupid things – but the amount of intel she got from him? I still can't believe the CIA didn't shoot him, when they were done with him. Sloane knew how to manage Emily better than that; she had a few connections through State, but he never let her guess what was really going on."

After a few moments of silence, Michael said, "Emily was somebody you could manage. Irina Derevko isn't."

"You don't have to tell me that." Bill sighed. "You're not one of the children Rambaldi wrote about, if that's something that was worrying you. Your destiny is your own, Mike. I wanted that for you. That's why you're here."

"Really." Nadia decided she liked Michael better when he wasn't hiding his sarcastic side. "And I thought you were protecting me from the Covenant."

"The Covenant – they started as decent people. You know that, right? They worked with us. But when the U.S. government decided Rambaldi's generation was still to come, and decided to focus on the indoctrination side of it – well, some people in the program couldn't take it. They thought they were the children of destiny. They split off, became the Covenant. Developed their own insane ideas about Rambaldi's legacy." All at once, Bill cut himself off – realizing, perhaps, how much he was revealing. "And I think that's enough for tonight."

I'm one of the children Rambaldi wrote about, Nadia thought. I'm the Passenger. Someday I will battle my sister, and only one of us will survive. Her papa hadn't explained any of that to her; he'd explained even less than Bill Vaughn.

Later that night, when she finished brushing her teeth, she stepped into the hallway to find Michael waiting in his bathrobe. "Just tell me this," he said, arms folded across his chest. In an instant she knew that she hadn't been as surreptitious as she'd hoped. "Who are you eavesdropping for? Sloane or yourself?"

"It's not an either-or question."

Michael smiled then, and she thought the expression surprised them both. "Take notes. We might want them later."

Would she tell Papa about this? Conspiring with Michael against Papa felt uncomfortable – but then, so did conspiring with Papa against Michael. Nadia had too few loyalties in the world to easily accept betraying any of them. Perhaps it would be best to tell everyone involved everything.

But the next morning, at breakfast, Papa said, "Dearest, I'm going away for a little while."

"Away? You're leaving Mexico?"

"Just for a few days." He smoothed her hair with his hand. "It's nothing important."

He would not leave this house for anything unimportant. Nadia understood that much. "Can you tell me why?"

"It doesn't matter," Papa said, leaning to kiss her forehead. "Just know that I'll miss you, every moment that I'm gone."

As long as her papa had secrets, Nadia decided, it might be best to keep some of her own.

**

Vaughn made the difficult trip into the computer room a little earlier the night after Sloane left; he figured he had a little more freedom to work.

The computer monitor lit up, illuminating Vaughn's face with the cathedral of Milan. He carefully went through the series of files he'd found, entering password after password. His hunch about "holy circle" had paid off first; the second password, sure enough, was "Second Coming." The third bar that came up asked not for a word, but for numbers. Numbers? How was he going to talk a code out of his dad?

Vaughn sat there, considering what he'd heard. Each of the passwords, so far, was something important to his father, something that dated back to the earliest days of Project Christmas. Something important, something about children –

No. It couldn't be that fucking easy.

With shaking fingers, Vaughn typed in his own date of birth. The screen went black, then brought up more file folders than he could count.

"You son of a bitch," Vaughn whispered. "You worthless son of a bitch." Vaughn forced his anger back; he had work to do, and there was no guarantee that any given night in the computer room wouldn't be his last.

Several of the file folders had their own password protections. More conversations with his father would be necessary to crack the codes, though Vaughn already had some ideas. (He would bet any amount of money that both Sydney and Nadia's birthdays would be important too.) But some of the folders were already accessible – mostly scans of pages from Rambaldi texts. By now, Vaughn knew Milo Rambaldi's handwriting as well as he did his own.

The pages varied in content – for the time being, Vaughn merely scanned them, trying to find some common thread. The first he found wasn't in the text, but in an illustration that appeared over and over again: A bouquet of yellow flowers, blossoms thick on each stem. The genus species was written beside them once, in green ink: Laburnum Anagyroides. Then its name in German, which translated to Gold Rain.

Laburnum, Vaughn mused, mulling over his limited knowledge of botany. He had heard that name before – of course. The plant was the source of a poison. In and of itself, the poison was nothing a third-rate alchemist couldn't have brewed 500 years ago, so Vaughn doubted that information was very important on its own. More likely, the flowers were symbolic of something else. Something deadly.

Then, as Vaughn leaned closer to the screen, he realized that the ribbons tying the bouquets together weren't ribbons at all.

They were strands of DNA.

**

VI.

 

**Warsaw, Poland**

 

"You could have chosen any city in the world for our rendezvous," Sloane said. "Tokyo. Barcelona. Why someplace as drab as this?"

Irina looked up at him from her seat at the outdoor cafe; sunglasses shaded her eyes, and he could not guess at the emotions they might be concealing. "I grew up in Moscow."

"Is that an explanation?" Sloane wished she would stand; he might offer an embrace for old times' sake, if she would only stand to receive it.

"There's an old joke Poles tell. A Frenchman leaves on a train from Paris to Moscow, gets confused and steps off at Warsaw. He swears and says, 'Moscow is just as ugly as everyone says it is!' Meanwhile, a Russian leaves on a train from Moscow to Paris, gets confused and steps off at Warsaw. He swears and says, 'Paris is just as beautiful as everyone says it is!'" Irina's smile was without joy. "It's all about the eye of the beholder, Arvin."

He sat at the small table opposite Irina and motioned to a nearby waiter. Asking Irina to share her Pellegrino would probably be in error. "I won't ask you why you never told me. I understand completely, Irina. You should know that."

"That's – gracious of you."

"Jack Bristow hasn't taken the news quite so well. You should know that too."

Irina pushed her sunglasses further up her nose. "I'd guessed that much."

Had they spoken at all? Sloane imagined not. Jack – still so misguided, still so stubborn – had nearly murdered Sloane for the transgression he and Irina had shared; no doubt he would have killed Irina outright, or died trying. As no reports circulated about Jack's death, Sloane thought it more likely that Irina was wisely avoiding her husband.

But she hadn't avoided her lover. Irina had sought him out, and for the first time since Emily's death, Sloane allowed himself to think of their affair without guilt. Their time together had been so brief, born of necessity: different necessities for each of them, but still, a requirement rather than a choice. And yet he had always desired her. From the first night Jack had invited him home for dinner, and Sloane had seen her – slim and perfect in white, her nails salmon-pink, her smile slow and wide – he had fantasized about taking her, had conjured in his mind various hotel rooms, unlikely accidents, situations that would bring them together in ways Jack and Emily would never have to know about. Sloane knew that on some levels he was glad for the demands that had necessitated their affair, that they had only given him an excuse for what he had longed to do for so many years.

But he would never have betrayed Jack or Emily for any lesser purpose. Not even to have Irina.

She regarded him in silence for a few moments before speaking again; Sloane could tell the next words cost her dearly. "How is Nadia?"

"Nadia is – so beautiful." The word "beauty" couldn't even begin to describe their daughter; he risked touching Irina's hand and was moved despite himself when she took it. "She had a difficult childhood, after you lost her. But she's so resilient. Now that she finally has love and guidance in her life, Nadia is becoming the vibrant young woman she always should have been."

Irina turned her face from him, but Sloane understood her emotions, no matter how she might try to hide it. He didn't have to imagine what Irina was feeling. He knew it for himself. Finding a child again, a child stolen away, after years of not knowing how she was, or even whether she was alive –

Sloane received his Pellegrino and set about pouring it. The momentary distraction helped him focus and remember: Irina's reactions were not his own. Irina had known about Nadia far longer than he had, and her perceptions of the truth were – clouded.

Finally, Irina said, "I want to see her. To meet her."

"It's impossible," Sloane replied, surprised and angry with himself for the cutting tone in his words.

"How can you say that?" She smiled thinly and shook her head, as if she were the one denying him. "I haven't seen Nadia since she was a few hours old, Arvin. My baby – our baby – not one day has gone by that I haven't wanted to hold her again."

Tears pricked at his eyes, but Sloane understood Irina too well to let his empathy overwhelm him. "You've always wanted to find our daughter –"

"Yes. It's why I was so desperate for the Rambaldi artifacts – you must have realized that much by now –"

"You've spent the past twenty-five years searching for Nadia, just to find her." Sloane stared at Irina as he added, "To kill her."

Irina straightened in her chair. The softness he thought he'd glimpsed in her face was gone in an instant; he should have known it was all just another of her lies.

After a silence that seemed to last a very long time, she said, "I only wanted to know which role Nadia would play in the prophecies."

"If you had known the truth –"

"Yes. I would have killed her." Irina's face never changed as she spoke the words; for the first time, Sloane truly understood what Jack Bristow had meant when he called her a monster. "But if I'd known the truth all along, she would never have been born, would she?"

"I should think you would have come to understand my purpose by now. Rambaldi's purpose." How could anyone look into the face of Rambaldi's greatest promise – immortality itself – and turn away? "And I cannot accept that you regret Nadia's birth. I doubt very much that Nadia could accept it either."

Irina smiled at him in precisely the same way he'd seen her smile while slitting a man's throat. "I doubt very much that Nadia knows the truth. You've lied to her, just as you lied to me."

Fear pierced his heart, icy and sharp, but Sloane quickly dispelled it. "Nadia will learn the truth when it's time, and not before. And she'll understand. She understands Rambaldi better than any of us." He stood up, knocking against the edge of the table so that their water splattered onto the plastic surface. "Irina, I cared very deeply for you, once. You gave me the greatest gift that a woman can give a man. Because of that, I've chosen to spare your life. Don't force me to reconsider that decision."

"You aren't walking away from this table alive. Not unless we've made arrangements for me to see Nadia. I won't harm her." Irina breathed out slowly. "I know it's too late for that."

This fell short of heartwarming maternal devotion, in Sloane's opinion. "You have shooters covering me. I have shooters covering you. We both knew it would be like this. It's a stalemate, Irina. Either we both leave this scenario, or neither of us does."

"What makes you so sure I'm not willing to die?" Not only did Irina sound willing to die, Sloane thought, but almost eager. "If it means I take you with me?"

She still wanted to see Nadia, despite everything. Sloane considered that information and took a gamble: "Because that would leave Nadia alone. She will have no one. You will have abandoned her again."

Irina's head drooped, hiding her face behind a curtain of hair. After a long and tense silence – during which Sloane could not help imagining rifle crosshairs upon his back – she said flatly, "Go. Just go. Now."

Sloane strolled away through the Warsaw sunshine, taking his time. When you compared the city to Moscow, really, it did have its charms. Maybe he would return here eventually, with Nadia. And maybe – after the great work was finally done, after the Rain of Gold had changed the world – maybe Nadia could meet her mother after all.

At that point, Irina might even understand the actions he would soon be forced to take against Sydney.

Was it so impossible? Sometimes it seemed to Sloane that, in a world that contained his daughter, nothing was impossible.

He found the tracker Irina had planted on him in the airplane. A quick tuck into the seat pocket, along with Sky Magazine and a laminated card, and the tracker was ready to fly across the world. Sloane wondered if Irina would chase him long, but thought – probably not.

**

VII.

 

Sydney couldn't really afford to pack. Taking all her most prized belongings was basically the same as painting a sign on her door that read: _NOT KIDNAPPED. LEFT OF MY OWN VOLITION. _

She would have liked to tell Eric that much at least, to spare him some of his worry. But leaving even a single clue was too much; it would be hard enough to hide from the CIA as it was. And her father –

\--he'd go crazy, he'd tear her apartment apart, as well as anybody who got in his way—

\--would just have to live with not knowing. Sydney tried to tell herself that the hollow ache in her heart wasn't for her father's sake, that it was solely for Eric. Maybe if she told herself that often enough, she'd believe it.

She had never really mattered to Dad – to Jack Bristow. To him, she had never been just his daughter. Instead, she'd been a piece on a game board, the queen in a game of chess she hadn't known was being played. Every time he'd protected her, he'd only been protecting an asset; the few avowals of love he had ever given her had only been ways of tying her to him, for his later exploitation.

The words made sense to Sydney, as she repeated them in her head. But she didn't know if she'd ever fully be able to accept them in her heart.

You have to, she told herself. For your sake, and your baby's.

The words – "for the baby" – were flat and meaningless, more a reflection of what Sydney knew she should be feeling than what she actually felt. Although she was more than three months along, Sydney still couldn't quite convince herself that a baby would really appear.

Her OBGYN was confused at her refusal to undergo a sonogram; Sydney didn't think she could risk having the images recorded, and it was easier to talk her way out of the sonogram itself than it was to convince the doctor to destroy all internal records – videotapes, pictures, or an EKG of a fast, tiny heartbeat. Maybe that was why she was still so numb? No – women had done without sonograms from the dawn of time until a couple decades ago, but they had been able to feel emotionally connected to their pregnancies. Sydney, try as she might, couldn't feel that way.

Not even for Vaughn.

Sydney's eyes darted to a picture of Vaughn on one of the bookshelves. Almost all the photographs there were his, brought from the home he'd shared with Lauren. Her belongings had been destroyed in the fire: her keepsakes, Francie's cookbooks, the photographs of her child self with the mother and father she never really knew. Vaughn must have liked this photo, because he'd kept it for a long time; the guy grinning from the brass rectangle was ten years younger and far more carefree. She'd never really known Vaughn like this, but Sydney realized that this was how she wanted to remember him.

If Vaughn comes back – WHEN he comes back – I won't be here for him, she thought. He won't be able to find me, not if I've done my job right. He'll never know about our child.

But Sydney knew that if she were able to ask Vaughn about this, he would tell her to do exactly what she was doing – to take care of their baby first. Compared to that, nothing else mattered.

She didn't have to feel it, not as long as she knew it.

Sydney took a deep breath and started putting together the scant few things she could afford to take. If she was going to get away tonight, while Eric was working late and unlikely to notice any activity from her apartment, she needed to get moving.

**

Jack rarely listened to music, or to anything else, while he drove; the commute was one of the few respites of silence he could count upon on his day. As usual, he used the time to reflect on the most recent intel.

After a few weeks of hope at the CIA, the virus had begun spreading again through Southeast Asia. Apparently the delaying mechanism Sloane's geneticists had devised was perfect; the virus now had an incubation period of weeks or even months, guaranteeing a wide spread of infection.

Whatever chance he'd had to stop the Rain of Gold was already past. Arvin Sloane had won – now, and possibly forever. All his years of work with Sydney hadn't brought him any closer to an answer.

Jack gripped the steering wheel tighter, all his inchoate fears and dread settling into one question – Irina, why didn't you tell me?

His cellphone chirped, startling him from his reverie. Jack brought it up to his ear in one clean motion. "Yes."

"Jack. It's Katya."

He had not expected to hear from her for a very long time, if ever again. "What's happened?"

"Word has reached me that Arvin Sloane – he's given the order, Jack."

Very carefully, Jack edged his car out of traffic and next to the curb. "Are you sure?"

"Would I call if I weren't? We may have very little time. You must get to Sydney, now."

"Send what intel you have to our pre-arranged e-mail account," Jack said, snapping the phone shut. Katya would not expect long goodbyes. He immediately began punching numbers into his phone; from the tone of Katya's voice, there was absolutely no time to lose.

**

Sydney had to choose the few things she would take very carefully : a bottle of perfume, some shampoo, a few sets of underwear, so forth. No point in packing keepsakes or clothes – the CIA would notice what was missing. Her father had never complimented her on a dress or suit in her life, but he probably had every single one of her outfits written down in a card catalog somewhere.

She ran one hand across her slightly-thicker waistline and wondered: Is this what happened to him? To Mom? When I was on the way, were they just not able to feel it? Maybe we don't have parental instincts. Maybe it's genetic, something Rambaldi had bred out of us, so we'd be willing to offer up our children to his work.

No. Sydney couldn't believe her feelings wouldn't change. What was holding her back – what had destroyed her father – was this life, these lies that surrounded every moment, every emotion, every person. Her father had never been able to tell her the truth, and so he'd never been able to love her the way that she needed. Maybe it was less something he'd done than something that had been done to him. Whatever it was, Sydney was going to escape; she was going to find someplace real.

And then her pregnancy would be real too.

When she thought about her father as just another victim of this life, it was harder to hold onto her resolve. It became to easy to think of him not as the cold, remote figure he'd been most of her life and the past few months – instead, she remembered him as he'd been last year: her rock, her anchor, her strength. Sydney had felt so lost, and sometimes it was as if her father was her last tie to feeling alive –

Tears welled in her eyes, and Sydney brought her hand to her mouth, trying to force them back. She couldn't be a little girl again, blindly trusting, trying to bury all her problems and fears in her father's embrace. For the baby's sake, she had to be strong – strong enough not to think of herself as child.

The phone rang, startling and annoying her. Only a month before, she would have jumped for the phone, hoping for news of Vaughn; her heart wasn't tormenting her so cruelly any longer. Sighing, Sydney walked from the closet into the hall to answer the phone –

\--and saw the man in black, silver-white scar across his left cheek, standing in her doorway.

Gun, she thought, diving across the room to the closest one she had hidden. But even as Sydney lunged for her weapon, she could see the man's black-garbed arm, rising fast, the shining metal in his hand.

No, no, please no. Not the baby, not now, no –

Sydney felt the shot before she heard it, a roar of pain that drowned out everything else in the world. Somewhere, she could hear someone falling, the crash of picture frames and books as they tumbled to the ground. Heat flooded from her chest into the rest of her body, thick and warm, dulling every sense.

She thought: I'm sorry, my baby. And then she could think no more.

**


	8. Chapter 8

_I practiced my sainthood  
I gave to one and all  
But the rumors of my virtue  
They moved her not at all  
I changed my style to silver  
I changed my clothes to black  
And where I would surrender  
Now I would attack_

I stormed the old casino  
For the money and the flesh  
And I myself decided  
What was rotten and what was fresh  
And men to do my bidding  
And broken bones to teach  
The value of my pardon  
The shadow of my reach

But no, I could not touch her  
With such a heavy hand  
Her star beyond my order  
Her nakedness unmanned

I came so far for beauty  
I left so much behind  
My patience and my family  
My masterpiece unsigned.

\--Leonard Cohen, "I Came So Far For Beauty"

 

IRENICON: Book Four

 

I.

 

**Istanbul, Turkey**

 

I'm sorry, my baby.

Olivia Reed lay on the bed in her hotel, staring at the wobbly cycles of the antique ceiling fan overhead. White sheets, white walls, white fan, all illuminated by pale light from the one open window: It was like being snow-blind.

Lauren's nursery had been white, soft with eyelet frills. Her friends – the wives of other politically prominent men in Virginia – had said Olivia was mad, that everything would stain. They painted their babies' walls brilliant yellow and bright green, with round shapes and cartoon characters, equally welcoming for a boy or a girl. Resolute, Olivia had done everything in white lace, as sure of a daughter as she was sure of perfection.

And she had been right. Lauren had never disappointed her, not even once.

Had Lauren known that? Olivia hoped that she had – but it was a hope without much substance. Ever since Lauren's marriage to Michael Vaughn –

\--that worthless wretch, that scum—

\--Olivia had been sharp with her, making demands that in retrospect might have been unfair. She'd envied Lauren, in a way. Michael, from the sound of things, had been a less onerous husband than George Reed: He made few demands on Lauren's time, didn't require incessant reassurance for his ego, did not possess bizarre and unpleasant sexual predilections. But that didn't mean the marriage was easy for Lauren. Marriage without love could never be easy.

George had been a reasonably adequate father, all the more reason Olivia should have been more understanding about his murder. Lauren's hesitation had been only human; really, the task should have been given to Olivia herself, aching as she had been for that fatal blow. Decades, she'd waited – but still, she could have given her daughter a little more time. Instead, she'd been sharp and unkind.

Olivia's eyes filled with tears as she turned her face into the pillowcase, wishing for her daughter back. She wept brokenly as the sun went down, and only consoled herself by remembering some particularly gruesome interrogation techniques the Covenant had taught her, and resolving to use them upon Michael Vaughn at the next opportunity. They comforted her into dreams as the ululations from the Hagia Sophia wafted through the window.

The next morning, when Olivia went to wash her face, her first thought was that her weeping had made her eyes bloodshot. In only a few seconds she realized it was more than that.

Julian Sark opened the door to his hotel room mere seconds after her first knock; his comprehension was immediate. "This is not possible."

"So we thought," Olivia said. "But the Rain of Gold isn't theory any longer. This is fact."

Julian's eyes were still clear and blue. His exposure to the virus had come at the same time and same level as her own; given the disease's extreme level of contagion, it seemed likely that Bomani's vaccinations worked. However, the protections everyone had assumed were inherent in the genetic code – the natural immunity – didn't seem to be universal.

"This will come as an unwelcome surprise to a lot of people," Olivia said later that night, when her fever had begun. "Most of whom deserve it."

"May it come to Arvin Sloane first of all," Julian said as he patted down her arms with a cool, wet cloth.

Olivia kept expecting Julian to leave her. It was the logical thing to do, and she wouldn't have resented his departure. Was it emotion for Lauren that kept him at her side? She doubted that, as pleasant as it was to believe. It would have been nice to think that her daughter had won genuine feeling from her final and most loyal lover.

It was more likely that he was using the chance to observe the disease's progression, though Olivia felt certain he would have many more opportunities, and soon.

When he was not attending to her, Julian lay next to her on the bed; this too was probably just for observation, but in her distress Olivia found his presence vaguely reassuring. They watched the English-language news together at midnight, beneath the humming and clacking of the ceiling fan. A virus believed to be a variant of SARS had its first reported case in Japan that day; reports circulated that China had several cases but would not admit it. In Thailand, there was something of a panic; news footage showed people walking around wearing surgical masks or bandanas over their noses and mouths, though their eyes were bored as they went about their errands. The newscaster gravely informed them that the disease had claimed 39 known victims.

"I wonder who number 47 will be," she said.

"Not amusing."

"Gallows humor. Indulge me."

Her fever spiked during the night, dulling her thoughts and turning the world to pain. Olivia could feel the blood heat in her eyes, wondered how grotesque she must look to Julian. His face betrayed no emotion as he tended to her, not tenderly, but efficiently.

When she could concentrate, she gave him instructions:

"Tobias will know Sloane's location if nobody else does. You'll – you'll talk to him."

"He should be in Istanbul any day." Julian's voice was the only coolness in the room.

"And you can't – you can't make it sound like Sloane's the one you're after. It has to be Bill Vaughn. Sloane has allies. Bill – he has nothing left –"

"Except his son, whom I shall take away."

"Good." Olivia breathed through heavy lungs. "What's happening to me – this is better than the alternative."

"I believe you. Even now."

Olivia tried to maintain belief in it herself.

In the early hours of the morning, just at dawn, Julian's most secure cellphone rang, startling them both. Julian rose from her side to answer it. He swore once, then closed his eyes tightly. After this, what could possibly count as bad news?

He flipped the phone shut and stared at her with hollow eyes. "Sydney Bristow has been murdered."

Then there is no hope left, Olivia thought. None at all.

She whispered, "There's morphine in my kit. I'd prefer the overdose now, if you don't mind."

"You always did know when to make an exit." Julian's smile might almost have been gallant as he prepared her death. Olivia stared at the syringe and tried to summon up any emotion save despair.

Sydney Bristow was dead. The answers they had hoped to find in her had never come. All Olivia's work – all those years, all those nights with George Reed, even the sacrifice of her daughter – had been for nothing.

Julian took her arm in his hand, waiting for no last words, standing upon no ceremony. As she watched the needle slide into her vein, Olivia decided she preferred it that way.

Her head drooped back onto the white pillowcase, and she tried to pretend that she was again in Lauren's nursery, holding her baby in her arms. "Our cause is just," she murmured, hoping her daughter could hear. "Our cause was just."

**

II.

 

Ninety-nine evenings out of a hundred – when Eric wasn't in the field, anyway – he kept his cellphone with him at all times. But the memory chip needed replacing, so he left the phone with Marshall that night.

Ninety-nine evenings out of a hundred – when Eric made himself go to the gym – he mentioned where he would be to the people at the front desk, so that if anyone needed to reach him in a hell of a hurry, they could head to the weight room or racquetball court right away. That night, the front desk people were busy when he went by, and that particular precaution had never paid off once, so Eric just went ahead to his nemesis, the Stairmaster.

So he had been completely out of touch with the CIA for about three hours when he turned onto the road to his apartment complex; it was almost no time at all, but in his life, it was an eternity. Eric realized that fact about two seconds after he saw the red and blue lights flashing from the courtyard, their rhythm a staccato heartbeat.

It wouldn't be Sydney's apartment. It wouldn't be Sydney's apartment. Oh, shit, oh, fuck, it was Sydney's apartment.

Eric accelerated all the way into the curb, ignoring the clank of metal and the yank of the seatbelt against his chest. One grab into his gym bag and his CIA identification was in hand, which ought to get him through any cops.

"What's going on here?" he called as he ran toward the door. Neighbors who knew him only from paper pickups and pizza delivery huddled in front of their houses, wondering just what he did for a living. Time to move. "What happened?"

A break-in, Eric thought, answering his own question. It was a robbery, nothing more. Syd had lost a TV, and she'd have to come over and watch movies at his place. That would be the end of it. Not so bad.

But then he got close enough to look in the open door. The wide red stain on the carpet struck him like a blow.

He froze then – something he'd never done, not in the field, not in life, not once. It was as though he couldn't move or think, as if he could do nothing but stand there in the grass, in his T-shirt and shorts, staring at a bloodstain that had swallowed him up.

Behind him, he heard one of the cops talking into his radio. The words "murder suspect in custody" – they didn't make sense. He couldn't force them to make sense. "Murder."

"Weiss!" From the hallway of Sydney's apartment, a shape took form and personality: It was Dixon, his tie unknotted, his eyes anguished. "Weiss – we need you in here."

"I need a minute," Eric said, surprised that he could even speak aloud. Dixon looked as though he wanted to walk out to him, but maybe he was frozen too.

Sydney, dead. Killed. Murdered. And it wouldn't have been by some damned burglar either; Sydney could have taken anyone like that out in five seconds flat. This was the work of an assassin, somebody trained, somebody that Eric was trained to stop, but he hadn't been there to stop it, and –

Sydney, laughing as they shared a bottle of Chianti, crying in his arms after Vaughn's disappearance, shining in a tight silver gown in the middle of a nightclub in Helsinki as she listened to the words he whispered to the device in her ear. She was everything beautiful and brilliant and brave, and she was gone. Gone forever.

Not Syd, Eric said to a God who obviously wasn't listening. Not Sydney and Vaughn too, not both of them, and the first motherfucker who tells me At Least They're Together is going to get my fist in his face, dammit, dammit, dammit.

Tears were welling in Eric's eyes as he heard one of the cops say, "This one's got ID too. Let him through." He could hear footsteps in the grass, but he didn't turn to see who was standing behind him.

A bustling within the apartment, and then Dixon and a couple of cops walked out, towing a handcuffed man with them. Eric tried to look at the son of a bitch, but he couldn't make out much more than a stocky frame and a silvery-white scar; it was as if his mind refused to accept that Sydney's killer could have a human face.

"We're taking this man into our custody," Dixon said, apparently addressing the cops outside. "We'll provide transport—"

The person standing behind Eric stepped in front of him, raising his arm in one swift motion. Eric realized it was Jack Bristow the same moment he saw the gun.

"Jack!" Dixon yelled, and the shout almost drowned out the whirr-click of a silenced pistol. The head of the man who killed Sydney folded in upon itself, lost in a thick spray of blood. Eric ducked away, shielding his eyes with his arm; hot wet mess splattered on him, and his elbow pricked as if pierced by little needles.

Bone fragments, Eric realized. It was as close as he could get to thinking.

Dazed, he looked up at Jack Bristow's profile. Even as the cops swarmed him, Jack's face remained completely still.

**

Perhaps an hour later – though Eric would have been hard-pressed to name the time – Eric found himself driving back to CIA headquarters, now with a handcuffed Jack Bristow in his car. They were both bloodstained and silent.

Eric would deliver Jack Bristow into custody, while Dixon and the others tried to placate the by-now outraged LAPD. Jack would go to jail for destroying Sydney's murderer, and Eric only wished he'd had the sense and the gun to beat him to it.

Sydney deserved better, he wanted to say to Jack. Sydney was the best person I ever knew – yeah, better than Vaughn, even – and I don't see how I'm supposed to go on in a world that doesn't have her in it.

You avenged her, and I resent you for it, and I'm glad for it, and –

Quickly, Eric pulled the car over. Jack, who had been staring flatly at the road ahead, jerked around to stare at him. "What are you doing, Mr. Weiss?"

"Get out."

"Excuse me?"

"Get out of the car." Eric grabbed the key and took Jack's cuffed wrists to set him free. "I'll smack myself across the jaw, say you did it. Dixon won't buy that story and he won't give a shit. You can take care of yourself. Get out of here."

Maybe Jack was in shock too, because he just kept staring at Eric like they'd never set eyes on each other before. "You're breaking CIA regulations."

"And I don't care. You killed the guy who killed Sydney. As far as I'm concerned, you shouldn't go to jail for that. You should get a medal for that. But you know and I know that somebody paid that guy – somebody hired him – and whoever that was has to die too. You can probably take care of that better than anyone. So go on. Do it."

Instead of taking advantage of Eric's mercy or temporary insanity, whichever it was, Jack just sat there, staring.

Eric, crazy with grief and frustration, slammed his hand against the steering wheel. "Didn't you hear me? You need to go!"

Jack paused a moment longer, then said, "I think you need to come with me."

**

III.

 

Sloane was reading the stories of Guy de Maupassant when Bill Vaughn appeared in his doorway. Bill said nothing, not at first.

Time seemed to slow down, each second defined and separate from all the others. Sloane was very aware of lowering the book, of sliding the gold ribbon between the pages to mark his place; he noted the last line he'd read ("Le commandant seul gardait de la retenue,") so that he could begin again later. "Yes?" he said. He sounded so calm, marveling at it as though he were an observer.

"It's done. Sydney Bristow is dead."

Sloane was the one who had named the day and the hour, the one who had paid the price, and yet still it hurt. He'd known it would. "Are you quite sure?"

"They intercepted LAPD as well as CIA communications confirming it last night. Franco was caught." Bill hesitated, long enough for Sloane to take two shaky breaths. "He was murdered by Jack Bristow before the cops could take him away. Apparently Jack – he went a little crazy. He's in custody now."

Jack would escape from that jail eventually, Sloane knew. Sooner rather than later. But still, too late.

"Thank you," Sloane said. Though he spoke no more, and made no gesture, Bill understood that he had been dismissed and left.

She had been an excellent trainee, he'd told her. Among the most promising they'd ever had. He had shaken her hand and welcomed her to SD-6. She had looked into his eyes, guileless and patriotic, transparently yearning for all the approval her father had never given her. Sydney had been an eighteen-year-old girl.

Sloane rose slowly, feeling his age in his bones. At first he meant to pour himself a brandy, despite the early hour, but his hands shook so that he was afraid to handle the crystal. Instead he walked out to the deck and gazed toward the north. Nadia rode her horse near the water's edge; she'd asked for the privilege and he had granted it gladly, happy to indulge her. The guards kept her safe, but she was still there, sitting tall in her saddle, hair streaming out behind her like a banner. His beautiful daughter.

And yet, still, in his heart, when he thought of the word "daughter," it was Sydney he thought of. Sydney, whom he had killed.

So like her mother, he thought. And like her father too, though she wouldn't have liked to hear it. Sydney was the best of both of them – the best of two of the people I loved most in the world. Now that she is gone, the best of them has gone as well.

Only a few dozen feet away, Michael Vaughn stood right at the water's edge. He was watching Nadia ride; perhaps he had been invited along but had declined. The guards were closer to him than to Nadia. When Vaughn was told, there would be trouble once more. Had this man ever truly made Sydney happy? Sloane hoped so. She had deserved that much.

Why did you give her so little, Jack? How did you leave her so easily, Irina?

Sloane wondered if anyone else had ever loved Sydney as deeply as he had, as deeply as he always would.

And yet it was Sydney he'd been forced to sacrifice, in the end, to bring about Rambaldi's greatest work. That was the irony of it – and, Sloane understood, the justice. To gain this glory, it was only right that he should be forced to make a sacrifice. He had to bleed once more – to know this last and most terrible wound – before he could go on.

The better world to come would be Rambaldi's creation, and Sloane's, and, to some small extent, Sydney's too. Sloane tried to think of that. It was a comfort.

**

IV.

 

**Brussels, Belgium**

 

Irina punched the man who told her in the jaw, hard enough that she felt bone shatter against her knuckles. At that moment she hated them all, swore within her heart to kill them, could not understand why, after years of loyalty, they would betray her this way.

No, they were fools, traitors and scum. They told her lies. They told her that Sydney was dead.

"Leave me," she rasped. Her men shared glances, unwilling to obey. They distrusted her in her grief. They were wise. "I said, leave me." Finally they left.

When she fell to the floor, she thought one of them must have hidden in the room to attack her, though she could not remember the blow. At last it occurred to her that she had simply fallen, that her body would not support her any more. Now that she was alone, it was safe to lose control.

Her madness swallowed her whole. Irina could not stand, but she threw what she could reach, cursed the world in a dozen languages until her throat boiled and her breath caught. Then she just screamed, wordless, into her arms, into the floor, for as long as she could. When she could no longer scream, she cried, sick with betrayal and lies.

She cried herself to sleep, inasmuch as what she drifted into was sleep. It was more like passing out, the sudden cessation of thought and consciousness, a blessed relief from pain.

Irina came to on the floor, and for a moment she was disoriented, unable to remember why she would be sleeping on hardwood, why her throat hurt, why her face was sticky and her hand sore. Then she remembered, and the tears began again, unchecked by any further denial.

Sydney was dead.

This wasn't like last time. She'd always doubted the earlier reports of Sydney's death – they made no tactical sense. This made perfect sense.

She remembered giving birth to Sydney, the shock and wonder of an infant's wet, slippery weight against her chest, the way it had drowned out all her pain in happiness. She remembered piano lessons, putting aside mundane songs about clowns and parades to teach Sydney a simple version of the Ode to Joy. She remembered one too-brief embrace on the roof of CIA headquarters, the way Sydney's body had felt in her arms. They had only hugged once.

Irina remained motionless for a few moments, trying to muster up the strength to move.

Sloane was the one who had ordered Sydney's murder; Irina had no intel to inform her of this and did not need it. Now there was nothing to do but remember, and she dwelled on the most visceral, disgusting memories possible: She had let Sloane fuck her. The man who had murdered her first daughter had climaxed inside her body. She had given him a child, and he had taken hers away.

As she had intended, revulsion empowered her in a way grief had not. Irina crawled across the floor to a small table, opened a drawer, took out her pistol. A double-check revealed that the guards had not thought to unload it. Clicking off the safety, Irina settled the muzzle under her jaw. The bullet's upward trajectory would empty out the center of her brain, just like coring an apple.

Jack, she thought, calling to him as she had never allowed herself to do before. Jack, we should be together.

Irina knew that Jack would have held his gun beneath her chin, and she would have done the same for him. Neither of them could want anything but death in the left-over world they now inhabited. They could have given that to each other, a final gift.

Then he spoke, inside her mind: If we do this, Sloane wins.

He's won already, Irina thought. But now it was her own mind arguing back, saying – not if he dies soon. You still have time to find him. You still have time to kill him.

Irina clicked the safety back on and called the guards back. Without a word, she held out the pistol and let them take it from her. They were too competent to make such a mistake again, at least not for many days, and by that time perhaps it would not matter.

"What shall we do?" one of them said.

"We have a message to send," she replied.

Months before, Irina had cut off all her old channels of communication; neither Jack nor Katya could have reached her now, even if they had wanted to. But Irina still knew ways of sending messages so that only certain eyes would see them.

Within a few hours, the reply came. Irina picked up the phone and heard, "May I extend my sympathies?"

"We won't discuss it. Sloane has to pay for this."

"I quite agree. And I have some information that may help us in that. I've just had a little chat with Tobias – the late Tobias – that cleared up many important questions as to Arvin Sloane's whereabouts."

Could this be an angel of the lord? No, Irina knew better than that, but no other words could possibly have made her smile – even so bitter a smile as she had now. "I'm glad I thought of you."

"As am I," said Julian Sark. "I didn't look forward to traveling alone."

**


	9. Chapter 9

V.

 

Vaughn lay on the floor of his room; it didn't seem like a strange thing to do, for whatever reason. He was focusing. You could focus while lying on the floor.

The events of the past two days had a strangely disjointed quality. Vaughn could remember them in detail: Sloane's eyes filling with tears as he broke the news. The way his own stomach had lurched, how every bite of food he'd taken in this strange place seemed to turn to poison. Nadia's plaintive weeping echoing down the hallway. The mournful look in his father's eyes, the soft touch on Vaughn's shoulder, violently shrugged off.

But these memories didn't seem to have sunk all the way into his brain. Vaughn knew them all to be true, but it seemed as though they should have killed him, and they hadn't.

He needed to focus. Focusing was important.

Perhaps it was as simple as the fact that he'd already lost his mind with grief for Sydney's death once, and couldn't do it all over. Perhaps it was the nagging sense he had that Sydney had only died the once, in the fire, and that he'd just had a long hallucination about her returning. Perhaps it was the knowledge that he'd nearly lost himself completely after learning the truth about Lauren, and that he had only barely won back his sanity – and now was determined not to surrender it, no matter what.

Whatever it was that had built this wall in his mind, sealing off his grief, Vaughn was grateful for it. He had work to do.

From his place on the floor, Vaughn ticked off the facts he was certain of: Sydney was really dead this time. Sloane believed it, absolutely – Vaughn didn't know how he could tell that, given what a masterful liar Sloane could be, but he knew this as surely as he'd known anything in his life. Sydney's death was in some way linked to the documents he was still discovering in the secret computer room; the glances between Sloane and his father confirmed that as surely as a signed document. And finally – Sloane was in some way responsible for Sydney's death. Sloane's own grief was his evidence. Vaughn had realized that, if anyone else had done it, if her murder had not served Sloane's endgame, Sloane would not have been mournful but angry. Sloane would have wanted revenge.

Vaughn was going to be the one to get revenge. He could sit at the dinner table with Syd's killer and smile, if that was the price. He could do all that and more, just as soon as he could get up off the floor.

So, not just yet.

Creaking hinges revealed that the door was being opened. Vaughn didn't bother to look up. "Get out."

"You can't keep doing this to yourself," Nadia said. "You were so much better –"

"This is different. I think you're probably aware of that."

"I am. I know." She stepped forward – he could hear her bare feet on the carpet – but did not attempt to touch him, for which he was grateful. "Michael, I can't pretend that I knew her as you did. Or that I loved her as much as you loved her. But Sydney was my sister. You and I – we both lost her."

Time to speak? Not yet. Let Nadia tug a little more rope first.

"I keep thinking of everything I lost – the chance even to know her. And I want to know her through you, if I can." The sincerity of her appeal was unmistakable, and to his surprise, Vaughn wanted to respond. But he remained quiet. "Papa can only tell me so much –"

The thought of Sloane warping Nadia's mind to match his own snapped Vaughn's control. "You want to know her," he growled, lifting his face from the floor at last. Nadia stood above him, wearing a red T-shirt and jeans and looking so much like Syd that it hurt. He could use that. "You could have known her, if you'd stayed in Los Angeles instead of betraying her."

"I didn't – Michael, Papa came to me, and –"

"You didn't care what your father did or didn't do. You were just so damn needy for a daddy you'd take one wherever you could find him." He used the bed to pull himself up to a standing position. "You were too busy chasing your own obsession to be there for Sydney."

Nadia shook her head. "You're upset. You're not yourself."

"And you are? You were too caught up in what happened to YOU to care about what happened to HER." Vaughn was shouting now, and he didn't know where the anger inside him was coming from, but he could use that too. "Don't stand here and tell me how much you loved Sydney when you threw her away! They didn't take her away from you – you lost her all on your own."

"Mike!" His father appeared in the doorway. About time, Vaughn thought. Nadia pushed her way out, blindly, perhaps through tears. "Mike, calm down."

"Calm down? Sydney's dead and you want me to calm down?" But he had to shove the anger aside now. It couldn't help him much longer.

"Come on, buddy." That was something he'd said after Little League games, or picking him up at the skating rink. Vaughn tried to remember being that boy, the one who loved his father so completely, the one who lived in a world he could trust. "Let's sit here, okay? Nadia's a sweet girl. She's not the one you're angry at."

And it was true, Vaughn realized, identifying the source of his rage at last. He was angry at himself.

I was too busy chasing my own obsession to be there for Sydney. They didn't take her away from me; I lost her all on my own. Or I was about to, just before the end.

The wall crumbled, and Vaughn half-sat, half-fell onto the bed beside his father. When his dad's arm clasped him around the shoulder, he didn't resist.

"She used to be my whole world, Dad. Sydney was – it was like I'd spent my whole life playing it safe, and then she came along and showed me what it meant to live – to live like it mattered."

"I know, Mike. I know."

When did you know what that kind of love was like, Dad? When you left Mom without a word to chase Milo Rambaldi? But even now, as tears welled in his eyes, Vaughn was disciplined enough not to say those words aloud.

"She wanted so much. Syd hated this life we all lead – all these lies – she just wanted a chance to have something honest in her life. Something real. And she never got it, not even once."

"I'm so sorry. You know that, don't you, Mike?"

Vaughn let his head rest against his father's shoulder, surrendering to the embrace. Wasn't this a sign of trust? Grieving openly in Dad's arms? There had been a guarded quality to all his father's Rambaldi revelations so far – but after this, after the night when his son had wept for Sydney in his arms, Bill Vaughn would be willing to trust more. To talk more.

And if it really did feel good, deep down, to be held by his father once again – Vaughn wasn't above using that too.

As his tears turned to sobs, Vaughn tightened his arms around his father and thought, If Sydney never got anything real, neither will you.

**

VI.

 

Hearing is the last sense to go, and the first to return.

Sydney thought that as she heard a soft rustling nearby, then wondered why she was thinking such a thing. Then memory returned: the gunman, the blow, the dizzying fall to the floor. Instead of shocking or frightening her, the images merely played out in her mind, mildly interesting at best.

I'm drugged, Sydney realized. Then, thinking upon the tingling warmth that had spread through her after the shot, she amended that to "still drugged." Fortunately for her, the gunman had fired a tranquilizer dart instead of a bullet.

As her mind cleared a little further, Sydney realized this meant that, instead of being dead, she was a captive. A better situation, maybe, but still, definitely, not good.

The rustling was a little closer now, and she felt fingertips brush against her forehead for a moment. Sydney did not tense her muscles, did not even let her eyes move so that they might be seen beneath her eyelids. A couple of footsteps, and her captor moved away.

Feigning unconsciousness could buy her a little time, Sydney thought, but not very long. Chances were that the tranquilizer's dosage and effects had been calculated before the attack; they would know that she was due to awaken soon.

Her brain had snapped over automatically into "capture mode," performing the tasks most necessary to ensure her survival, and nothing else. As best as she could, Sydney tried to evaluate her circumstances. She could feel no bindings on her legs, arms or midriff; therefore she was free to move. This might be a good sign – a chance to fight – or a bad one, if her present jail was thought to be too secure for easy escape. It was a little cold in the room, not uncomfortably so, but to an unusual degree – 60 degrees, maybe; the light weight that covered her from the midriff down was possibly a blanket. The footsteps had no echo, and the overall sense of the ambient sounds suggested to her that she was in a fairly confined space – a small room, perhaps. Then, feeling the break between flat, firm cushions underneath her neck and the small of her back, Sydney realized she was lying on a medical table. This might be an examination room, then. Examination rooms sometimes had scalpels, scissors and other potential weapons. That much was definitely a good sign. Although her chest ached from the impact of the tranquilizer dart, and a whopper of a headache seemed to be brewing, she didn't feel any other physical pain or even discomfort. So, once she could throw off the drug's effects, she was in prime position to make her move.

Her captor shifted on his or her feet. Whoever it was seemed to be settling in to wait, and not going anywhere. And he or she was a few feet away, meaning that Sydney couldn't just lunge – it would take a step or two to get there, and that was time her opponent could use to prepare.

Sydney slowly tensed her arm muscles, then her legs. They responded to her commands; she might not be able to move at her usual speed, but she was able to move. Could she fight?

Her head was still heavy, and she knew from experience that such a heavy dose of tranquilizer would probably create some nausea. No, she couldn't spring into action. But if she confronted her captor, tried to get some answers, and maybe bought herself enough time to see and grab a weapon – then, maybe, she would have a chance.

Now or never, she thought. One, two –

Sydney sat up straight, opened her eyes, and saw her father.

He stared at her, expressionless, as she gaped at him. Surprise, fear, anger, relief – all of them flashed through her, each emotion muddied with the rest. Shock overpowered everything else.

As soon as Sydney could talk, she said, "You kidnapped me."

"Yes."

The ways he'd manipulated her throughout her life weren't enough; no, he finally had to take her prisoner. More in misery and resignation than anger, she said, "You couldn't ask for whatever it was you wanted. You had to send someone to shoot me."

"No. Arvin Sloane sent someone to shoot you, and to kill you. I was able to intercept that assassin and offer him double the money to fake your death instead."

"You still paid someone to shoot me."

Her father smiled, an expression she did not like. "He was paid exactly what he deserved."

"Why did Sloane try to kill me now? He's had other chances. He never took them." If her father thought she was going to take his word on faith at this late date, he was gravely mistaken.

"Sloane needed you before. He needs your death now."

"And so you took me prisoner for my own protection?" She glanced around the examination room, which had a makeshift look. A camp, perhaps?

"You aren't a prisoner, Sydney."

"I can leave, then."

"It would be a bad idea. Sloane isn't the only one who wants you dead." Her father stepped a little closer, and for the first time since their conversation in Wittenburg, she could sense that he was appealing to her to listen. "You should remain here for your own safety. If you won't trust me about anything else, trust me about that."

"I'll make my own decisions, and I'll leave when I'm ready. Where are we?"

"Antarctica."

Sydney stared at him. No, he wasn't joking. "I'm a prisoner," she said, contradicting him. "You wouldn't have brought me here for any other reason, drugged me to –"

Then her breath failed her, and the world spun, as her brain snapped out of capture mode and became human again: the drugs.

The baby.

"Sydney?" Her father was staring at her. "Are you all right?"

"You drugged me. Oh, my God, you bastard, you drugged me. You could have called me, told me about the attack and the faked death –"

His voice was sharp as he said, "Would you have listened? Somehow I doubt it."

"If you've hurt my baby, I swear to God, I will kill you."

And she meant it. So this was maternal instinct – nothing soft and fuzzy and talcum-scented, but as powerful and fierce an emotion as Sydney had ever felt. The entire world seemed to shift for her, centered on a love that crushed her, illuminated her, made her strong.

She was having a baby. Her baby was in danger. Nothing else mattered, or could ever matter.

Her father's eyes went wide as he glanced down at her midriff. "Sydney – you're pregnant?"

Sydney had never meant to tell him, but she was his captive now, and the truth would be apparent sooner rather than later. She just nodded.

Her father looked away from her quickly, and his voice sounded strange. "You – you never said anything."

"I think you should understand the reasons why." Sydney's arm slid protectively around her belly, wondering how the baby could ever have seemed less than real. Had anything in her life ever been more real than this feeling – than this fear? She tried desperately to remember anything she'd ever read about the effects of tranquilizers on pregnant women. Had they covered that material, ever? Most drugs' effects were less severe after the first trimester, and she was a few weeks into the second – would that protect the baby? "I want a doctor, and I want tests, and I want exact information on the drug you used."

"As fast I can get them. It's going to take a day or two, for the doctor. " He was still hunched over, his face weathered and sad. For the first time, Sydney realized that he was the baby's grandfather. Jack Bristow a granddad. It didn't seem real – to him either, to judge by his expression.

There was a brief window of a few months – back when she was first dating Vaughn, years ago – when she'd been able to envision revealing news like this happily: over brunch, or during a walk in the park. But for most of her life, she'd imagined the event as just another chance for her father to disappoint her. She hadn't guessed the half of it.

"You risked my baby's life to do this. You deserve to know that," Sydney said. Despite her words, she was less certain now, and she could hear it in her own voice. "I deserve to know your reasons."

Maybe it was the shock of finding out about the baby. Maybe they'd finally gone as far in secrecy as they could go. But her father sighed heavily, as though setting down a heavy weight. "Hiding the truth from you no longer serves any purpose."

Could he possibly mean it? Sydney realized that he looked tired, defeated and old – like a man who was on the verge of giving up. She'd never wanted to see that – her father looking beaten – nor could she ever have wished for the cause to be the revelation of her pregnancy. But if the result was finally getting at the truth, then it would be worth it. It would have to be worth it. "What truth is it you're going to tell me? About Project Christmas? About Mom? Nadia?"

"All of it."

Sydney took a deep breath, wavering between curiosity and dread. "Okay. Start at the beginning."

Her father hesitated another moment, then sat down in the room's one chair, clearly settling in for a long tale. This made her slightly more convinced that he was going to tell her the truth. It was best to keep lies brief.

"The CIA recruited me when I was a teenager. I had the test scores and skills they were looking for, but that wasn't the only reason. Apparently some of my – our – ancestors were Rambaldi followers."

Sydney couldn't fully conceal her surprise. "How far back does this go?"

"Even I don't know everything. The government's Rambaldi projects date back almost 200 years, at least in an official capacity. There's some evidence Benjamin Franklin worked on decrypting Rambaldi texts as far back as 1770."

Did I want to know that? Sydney thought. Oh, God, even American history is getting put in the blender.

"Rambaldi always designed his most important works to function as both man and machine –"

"The DiRegno heart," Sydney said, remembering its eerie beat.

"Precisely. DNA was key to all of this – and before DNA testing was common, even before DNA was discovered, those who studied Rambaldi knew that certain bloodlines were important to his research. Ours is among them."

"And Mom's? Her name was on that box – she has to be important."

Her father closed his eyes as he said the next. "The real Laura West died when she was 7 – though we only discovered that years later. The young woman the government tracked down in 1970 was Irina Derevko. The government wanted to recruit a woman with a strong Rambaldi bloodline; they had no idea just how well they'd done. But the Russians did."

This part was harder. Sydney remembered the pain that had lanced through her when she'd seen the Wittenburg files, and her name typed next to the words CHRISTMAS SUBJECT. "And – and they made you guys have a baby."

"No. It wasn't like that. They believed it was our destiny -- it would happen, no matter what we did, and the CIA was there to observe the results, not control the process. I fell in love with your mother, and I thought she fell in love with me. That was why we got married, why we had you. The CIA was very interested in that – in you – but we didn't create you for them. We wanted a child. At least, I did."

Maybe it was the presence of the child inside her that made it impossible to continue thinking he would willingly have bargained her away. But was that instinct guiding her well or telling her lies? Love could deceive you too.

When she remained quiet, her father continued, "From your birth, many indicators in Rambaldi's work pointed toward you. You were going to be important – though nobody could tell why. That's why they assigned me to compile those reports on you –"

"Every private detail of my whole life." It still stung; it would always sting. "If you want this conversation to stay constructive, you should gloss over that part."

"We were looking for signs," he said. "It could have been anything – any moment, any act. But I thought I had spared you the worst destiny of all."

"What was that?"

"Most people believed that you would be the Irenicon."

"But that's a religious term – a means of securing peace, ending feuding – blending opposites." Obviously it meant something different in Rambaldi-speak. "What was the Irenicon's destiny?"

Her father rose from his chair and began pacing slowly; given his extraordinary ability for stillness, Sydney knew this as a sign of extreme agitation. "You know that immortality was among Rambaldi's obsessions. What you've never known is the manner in which he intended to give immortality to the faithful."

"Nobody's ever known that."

"No. It's been known for decades – centuries, maybe – though nobody understood the exact mechanisms until very recently." His pacing remained slow and deliberate, but Sydney could see how tightly his hands were clenched behind his back. "Rambaldi foretold a plague that would sweep through humanity, decimating the population. More than decimating – the number of fatalities would be more like 7 or 8 people out of 10, worldwide. But that plague – the Rain of Gold is the name he gave it -- would be the creation of Rambaldi's own followers."

"Oh, my God." Sydney took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. The disease they'd been tracking through Asia – she'd known it was important, that it was connected to Rambaldi, but nothing had ever suggested that it could be a holocaust on that scale. "Why would they do that? Why would Rambaldi make that possible?"

"Some people will survive the Rain of Gold just through luck." Her father half-shrugged. "If you can call that luck, given the chaotic world they're likely to inherit. But others – those who survive because of the Rambaldi immunizations or their bloodlines, the faithful – their bodies will be transformed by the virus, instead of destroyed."

Comprehension dawned, pale and sick. "You mean – Rambaldi's followers will become immortal. The plague that kills so many other people – it makes them immortal."

He corrected her. "Makes us immortal. You and I have the bloodlines."

"I don't want that." Sydney had never really thought about it – but then, she didn't have to.

"Neither do I. But that choice is rapidly being taken away from us."

"The Irenicon – was that the source of the plague? Oh, God, was I the source?"

"No." Her father's voice was even heavier now. "The Irenicon would provide the cure. Rambaldi created the blueprint for the disease, but he also created a way to cure it – why, I don't know."

"Why is that the worst destiny? That doesn't sound so bad –"

"Sydney, think," her father snapped. "Given the number of zealots willing to steal, cheat and kill in order to obtain immortality, how could you ever be safe once your status as the Irenicon was known beyond any doubt? You are the only person who can stop Rambaldi's plague. That means you are the only person who can prevent them from achieving immortality. If you were the Irenicon, hundreds of people would have no purpose more important than seeing you dead."

"Hang on." Sydney held up her hand and took a few deep breaths. It was tempting to write off the wave of dizziness as the after-effects of the drugs, but she knew better. "You said – you and Mom-- you tried to spare me that. How could you do that? If it was my destiny?"

"In the prophecies, it said quite clearly that the Irenicon would have a sister. And that this sister's DNA would be the source of the Rain of Gold."

"Nadia –"

"Your mother and I made a pact. We didn't want the plague to become a reality, and we didn't want to put you at risk. So, on a spare day after a mission, I used an alias, went to a doctor. Neither of us ever reported it to the CIA. If you couldn't have a sister, then you couldn't be the Irenicon. I thought I had made that impossible. As the last several months have revealed, there was a flaw in my thinking."

The enormity of what her mother had done hit Sydney with the stunning force of a blow. Irina Derevko's affair with Sloane had always nauseated and angered her – but now that she understood the reasons, it was a thousand times worse than she could ever have dreamed. "You mean – Mom – that's why she had an affair with Sloane. She was trying to get pregnant. She was trying to create the plague, so she could fulfill Rambaldi's work. Mom wanted to – all those people who are going to die, the ones who are already dead –"

Nausea overtook her, and she dived for the plastic sink against the far wall just in time to throw up. As she retched, Sydney felt her father behind her; his hands tugged back her hair, the way he'd done when she was very little. Too ill to be grateful, Sydney just gripped the edge of the sink and gave into the reflex completely.

When at last she could be sick no more, she straightened up and accepted the towel her father gave her. Quickly he poured her a cup of water and offered it – clearly unsure whether or not she would accept it. Sydney took the cup, uneasy about relying on him, but too weak and confused to do anything else. And yet, it felt good to lean on him a little. With her new awareness of her child had come a sense of vulnerability Sydney didn't yet know how to handle. Even her father's imperfect protection seemed better than no protection at all.

"Are you – is this morning sickness?" Maybe he was trying to make chit-chat. If so, he hadn't gotten any better at it.

"Haven't had any so far. I think this is just disgust, pure and simple."

"What you're feeling – that's how I felt, when I first found out," he said. "I thought your mother had betrayed more than our marriage. I thought she was conspiring in genocide."

"You're using the past tense."

He half-turned from her then, and braced one arm against the wall. "I received a communication from your mother. It wasn't intended for me, which is one of the reasons I believe it may have some veracity."

"And she had an explanation for this? What could possibly explain this?"

"According to – Derevko, Sloane approached her in 1981 with what he claimed was secret information about the Rambaldi prophecies. He convinced her that you were not the Irenicon, but that you were the source of the Rain of Gold."

"She thought I was the one who would create the plague?" Sydney did the calculations in her mind. "So having another baby – Mom thought that was the only way she could create a cure. But she couldn't have another baby with you."

"And Arvin Sloane offered himself as a solution." Her father's voice was more bitter than she had ever heard it. "I don't know if he had learned I couldn't father any more children, or if he simply thought I had refused. Your mother hasn't made that part of their negotiations clear. But apparently he deceived her, made her pregnant. That, she claims, was the reason."

He looked so bruised, so wounded by Sloane's manipulation of Irina. For the first time in months, Sydney found herself moved by her father's solitude, wishing to comfort him. "Do you believe her?"

"I want to believe her," he admitted. But as soon as he had opened up, he shut back down again, becoming official and stiff. "At some point between her escape and Nadia's birth, Derevko realized she had been lied to. The Soviets took Nadia from your mother as an infant, perhaps intending to use her to begin the plague. Bill Vaughn stole her after that. Apparently Sloane didn't know he had – knew nothing of your mother's second pregnancy. But, as he said, he discovered the truth later."

"And then he used Nadia to create the plague." They were silent together for a few moments before Sydney whispered. "It's already begun. But you haven't found the cure, have you?"

"We've studied everything about you." For the first time, that fact didn't make her angry. It made a certain kind of sense. "We always did – even when we didn't think you were the Irenicon, the CIA wanted the analysis for whatever role in the prophecies you would ultimately play. But every bit of data has been re-analyzed since we learned about Nadia, to no result. We've tested your blood, your DNA, your brainwaves –"

His voice trailed off. His eyes narrowed. He'd thought of something, but what?

In horror, Sydney jerked away from him, spilling the water onto the floor. "You are never – NEVER – going to touch my baby."

"Sydney – that's the only aspect we've never examined – that we never thought of –"

"You son of a bitch!" Sydney wanted to kill him. If she'd had a gun, she would have shot him and thought about the consequences later. "It's not enough that you spent my entire life dissecting me like a lab specimen. No, you want to do it to my baby too. You are the most cold – heartless –"

"The alternative is the death of millions of people!" For all his nasty moods, her father rarely raised his voice to her, but he was yelling now. "Nobody is talking about hurting your child. But if that child is the source of the cure, we have to know that. I would think you could appreciate the seriousness of the situation."

"Too bad you didn't think about that before you drugged us. Maybe you've killed the cure before it ever began. Did you think of that?" She had to still be pregnant – if she'd miscarried, her body would show the results – but her terror about the drug's effects on the baby welled up again, overpowering any other thought.

Her father stared down at her midriff, as if trying to tell if he'd hurt her through sheer will. They were both breathing heavily, and his voice was uneven as he said, "I'll get you a doctor. The two of you can decide what tests we can and can't run." After a moment, he said, "You'll do the right thing, Sydney. You usually do."

"How can somebody like you tell?"

He didn't respond, just walked out. The wall shuddered as he slammed the door; whatever structure he'd built in Antarctica wasn't the strongest. Then again, the very fact that they were in a building with concrete floors and metal walls meant that this wasn't bad – for Antarctica.

Leave it to her father to figure out the one place on planet Earth she couldn't easily escape.

Even as she wondered if she was free to leave the examination room, the doorknob turned. As the door opened wide, Sydney gasped in shock. "No. Oh, God, please, no."

**

VII.

 

As fast as he could, Eric held up his hands. "Syd, there's just one thing I want to say, and it's really, really important to me that you listen: Don't hurt me."

"Eric – you're part of this?" Sydney looked as if she couldn't decide whether to start crying or kill him. Eric didn't want to make her cry, but he wanted to die even less. "You helped my dad kidnap me?"

"Actually, no. Your dad planned that all on his own." For a moment, Eric started to tell her how he'd believed that she was dead, the way it had made him feel – but no. Sydney didn't need to know any of that. "After he'd pulled you out, he said he needed some help to keep you safe. No way I was going to refuse when he put it like that."

"You left the CIA to come to Antarctica?"

He shook his head. "This is all on the CIA bankroll, baby. Your dad pushed it through somehow – don't ask me, it's got something to do with those secret connections of his. Dixon's in on it now, but I don't think he found out until that night either. The guys who run the station say they started construction about four months ago. So your dad's had this up his sleeve for a while."

"Figures." Sydney was obviously still furious, but her anger now seemed to be reserved for Jack Bristow. As long as it wasn't directed toward causing bodily harm to anybody, most specifically himself, Eric was okay with that. "How long have I been out?"

"About a day and a half, I think. The jet-lag factor has to be multiplied by a power of ten when you're talking about Antarctica. Screws up the internal clock."

"I remember." As Sydney sat down on the examination table, she said, "How long are we going to stay here?"

"Until they get a cure, or until the plague's run its course." At her surprised expression, Eric did a little interpretation and replied, "Yeah, Jack told me about the plague and the cure. Not until we got here, though. I'm still trying to process it."

"That makes two of us." She raised her head to look at him intently. "You gave up your whole life to hang out on Antarctica -- to keep me safe?"

"Honestly? Not so much. Between you and me, your dad is scary as hell, but he's all about the protection. You didn't need anybody else to keep you safe. But I thought –" It was sounding stupid, now that he was actually saying out loud. When he'd rehearsed it this morning, it had gone better. "—well, I thought you might need somebody to keep you company."

"Company?"

Eric sighed. "Take it from somebody who's been here for a grand total of a day and a half – Antarctica is BORING."

To his surprise – and, he thought, hers – Sydney started to laugh. Thank God; for all his frustration at always being "the fun guy" in Sydney's life, Eric liked seeing her happy. He hadn't seen that enough, lately. "That's the big danger you're here to guard against? Boredom?"

"Lotta ice here. Not much else. No cable, no radio, and your dad has pretty tight locks on the computer usage for security reasons. Only so many snow angels a man can make, you know? And I've already made 'em. We have a few DVDs, but your father picked them out, which means you better really, really like Hitchcock. But now, madame, we are going to have some serious, south-of-the-border – any border – fun. The conversation, the thrilling games of Boggle, and, okay, the snow angels, which might be more interesting with two people instead of one –"

Sydney bounded from her place on the table to fling her arms around him, and Eric hesitated for about half of a second before he hugged her back. She was alive, and she was safe, and he wouldn't have to think about the fake bloodstain on her floor ever, ever again. "Thank you," she whispered into his neck. "I'm so glad you're here."

"Me too."

"Not just for my sake." She hesitated, and pulled back enough to look him in the face. "For the baby's."

That took a second to sink in. Baby. Baby? As in, a baby baby?

"Sydney – you and Vaughn –"

"Vaughn never knew. I only found out after – well, after. But I'm four months pregnant."

He tried to imagine Vaughn's features on a baby. The result wasn't good, but just the thought of it – his oldest friend becoming a dad, Sydney becoming a mom – made a lump rise in his throat. That love affair hadn't been for nothing after all. The Covenant had taken so much away from Syd and Vaughn, but they hadn't been able to steal everything. Weiss had always imagined being an uncle to Vaughn's kids, but he'd always thought Vaughn would be there too --

"Eric?" Sydney leaned closer. "Are you crying?"

"No," Eric said, but he was aware that he was blinking too fast to make it a very effective denial. "It's just – it's allergies. I'm, uh, I'm allergic to snow."

Sydney laughed again, but softly this time, as she hugged him again. "I don't think I could get through this alone."

Eric embraced her tightly as she laid her head on his shoulder. "You don't have to."

**


	10. Chapter 10

_I greet you from the other side  
Of sorrow and despair  
With a love so vast and shattered  
It will reach you everywhere_

Through the days of shame that are coming  
Through the nights of wild distress  
Though your promise counts for nothing  
You must keep it, nonetheless

You must keep it for the captain  
Whose ship has not been built  
For the mother in confusion  
Her cradle still unfilled

\--Leonard Cohen, "A Heart With No Companion"

 

IRENICON: Book Five

 

I.

 

"The important thing to remember here is that none of my five graduate degrees is a medical degree, okay?"

"I understand that." Dixon had long since accepted that listening to Marshall's babble was the price of working with genius, but that didn't stop him from trying to speed things up now and then. "You've talked with the med team. That's good enough for me."

It will have to be, Dixon thought. But he betrayed no sign of his doubts as he studied Marshall's charts, bars of data that glowed green and blue on the computer screen.

"Mom always said, with my brain, I should have gone to medical school. I keep trying to tell her, these days, Mom, with the crazy malpractice insurance, it's way better to be in the CIA than to be a doctor. You can't sue the CIA for malpractice, no sirree. And it's a good thing too, because if you look at the whole Middle East situation –"

"Marshall."

"Right, got it. Based on the information Mr. Bristow gave us, we know that the Covenant cells were working on vaccines against this Rambaldi virus. Some of those guys, they'll be protected by their genetics, lucky dogs. Lucky EVIL dogs, I mean. But some of them won't be protected, and those fellas are highly interested in getting on the whole immortality bandwagon, or at least surviving the plague that's coming straight out of the pages of the The Stand. The last information we got was from one of Bomani's labs in Geneva." Marshall held up a test tube and shook it slightly, so that the translucent red liquid inside sloshed about. "And this is what we synthesized based on that information. There's reason to believe that he used other labs – his center of operations was somewhere in Africa, which doesn't exactly narrow it down a whole lot – but this is probably the most recent data he had."

There was absolutely no aspect of this that Dixon was comfortable with. "Probably. Not certainly."

Marshall looked uneasy as well. "This is what the Covenant's betting their lives on. We can take another spin on the roulette wheel, but I don't think we're going to get a whole lot closer."

The computer screen continued to glow blankly at them, displaying the potential salvation of the human race. But if the vaccine didn't work, it was useless; if it had the common flaw of failed vaccines and actually transmitted the disease it was supposed to guard against -- it was worse than useless. Dixon wanted to have hope, but in these days, hope was hard to come by.

At last he said, "Marshall – put aside the greater ramifications of all of this. The plans for global delivery, all of it. Just tell me one thing, and I'll be satisfied." Dixon took a deep breath. "Can I give this to Robin and Stephen?"

Marshall slowly drew himself up and, for the first time in Dixon's experience, looked dignified. "I'm giving it to Mitchell."

"Then let's get started." It's a chance, Dixon thought. But we're all taking it together. "Essential personnel and their families, within the next 24 hours. Everyone remains under close medical supervision for at least three weeks. After that, if nobody shows symptoms, we begin global delivery operations."

"You got it, boss-man." Marshall grinned, and Dixon clapped him on the shoulder.

He scheduled Robin and Stephen's vaccinations with his own, explaining only that his office was giving out free flu shots. Robin missed the Halloween dance and was sulky, leading Dixon to suspect that a Cute Boy was thought likely to attend. For his part, Stephen wound up in a heated debate about the Lakers with Judy Barnett, of all people.

"Tomjanovich is the worst thing that ever happened to this – ow! – this team," Judy insisted, then winced as the band-aid was placed over her injection.

"It's not the coaching!" Stephen scarcely noticed the needle as his turn came. "It's the injuries!" Robin made a show of turning up the volume on her iPod to drown out such juvenile concerns.

Once they were back home that night, with Robin's door slammed shut and Stephen playing his video games, Dixon went through the newspapers, reading between the lines. The lead stories were still about politics, but the plague was now beating the antics of minor celebrities for space on the front page. 117 known victims. China had stopped claiming that its outbreak coverage under control and had even hinted that help might be sought from foreign physicians. An Op-Ed piece hailed this as an opportunity to heal East-West relations. Riots had broken out in some neighborhoods in India, where lower-caste citizens were thought to be the source of the disease some people were calling the "Bloodsight," because of the first symptom, bloodshot eyes. A "lighter side" news piece featured the new designer face mask from the house of Versace, brilliant in gold lame: safety and style.

It's all just another story now, Dixon thought. Within another month, that'll be all over with – one way or another.

For the next two weeks, no news was good news. Nobody got sick – not one single person, and that was great news. He received a single e-mail from Jack Bristow in the hideout that only Dixon and Marshall knew was in Antarctica; this report was terse, to say the least, but contained all the relevant information. Learning of Sydney's pregnancy made Dixon grin with delight – this was the best news of all. He'd always known she'd make a great mother someday, even if Sydney sometimes hadn't thought so herself. And there was a rightness to it, knowing that Michael Vaughn's life would go on, in a sense.

Maybe, in another couple of weeks, they could announce that they had the vaccine. Once the global delivery had begun, Sydney could be brought back from Antarctica to give birth among friends. It would be good, holding a baby again. Especially Sydney's baby. He'd taught Syd how to parachute to a target landing and disassemble a nuclear warhead; it would be a lot more fun teaching her how to diaper a squirming newborn.

Two weeks and five days after the vaccination, Dixon woke up to feel his eyes itching.

Hypochondria, he told himself. Half the office thought they were coming down with something, and absolutely no one had, with the exception of the "stomach virus" Marshall had that turned out to be bad sushi.

Even when he went to the bathroom and saw the blood vessels laced through the whites of his eyes, Dixon refused to panic. He could have bloodshot eyes for a number of reasons. Including, probably, the whiskey sour he'd had with a couple of the guys after work. He used some Visine, smiled at the results and got ready for work.

By the time he was halfway to the office, his eyes were itching again, and fear made his heartbeats hard in his chest.

"No way," Marshall said, as he helped the medtechs begin the testing. "Two weeks – that's as fast as we've ever heard of the plague incubating, at least in its final form. Usually it takes longer. This just has to be something else. A cold or – or the flu, maybe. Kinda ironic, huh? If we had vaccinations for the Rain of Gold and called them flu shots, but we really should've had flu shots instead?"

"Let's hope," Dixon replied.

But five minutes later, when the medtechs' faces went pale, Dixon knew the truth. The vaccine didn't work. Some of the CIA personnel would get the disease. And absolutely none of them were protected.

"Oh, no. Oh, no." Marshall couldn't stop repeating the words, and though he didn't doubt Marshall's friendship, Dixon knew the dismay wasn't for him. It was for Mitchell, not even a year old, with the same vaccination mark on his arm.

And Robin – and Stephen.

Dixon closed his eyes. Diane, honey, I tried to take care of them. I tried my best. But I think I failed all the same.

And he wished he could have seen Sydney's baby, just once.

**

II.

 

**Mountaineer Station, Antarctica**

 

Sydney didn't budge from the station – and only rarely left her designated room, a small cubby barely big enough for the bed – for the first two days.

Partly this was protest against her imprisonment. Partly it was fear, terror that any movement, any activity whatsoever, might take away whatever chance her baby had left. And then there was the overpowering desire for sleep that had overcome her. Long after the drugs had worn off, Sydney still wanted to sleep 10-12 hours a day. Was that pregnancy? Depression? She suspected the two forces were conspiring against her, tranquilizing her almost as completely as the drug had.

Eric came by to see her a couple times a day. Her father never came by at all. Sydney was grateful on both counts.

Just when she'd thought she would never move again – late on the second day -- Eric leaned his head in the door. "The doc's here." Instantly energized, Sydney leaped out of bed to meet the doctor in the hallway; she was surprised to see a woman who barely came up to her shoulder, still in cold-weather gear, waiting there for her.

"My name's Jenny Lo," the doctor said, somehow managing to heft her own enormous bag into the station, despite the fact that it was almost as long as the she was tall. "If you make so much as a single J. Lo joke, I swear to God, I'm out of here and you can get an Emperor penguin to deliver your baby."

"You got it." Sydney jumped at the heavy, metallic thud the bag made as Jenny dropped it to strip off her heavy parka. "What about Jell-O jokes?"

"Word to the wise: Don't taunt the lady with the speculum."

"Would this be a good time to mention that I have black belts in four different martial arts?"

Jenny snorted, a surprisingly deep sound from such a small woman. "We're gonna get along. The message said you needed a check-up stat – let's get to it."

The doctor had brought some of the stuff Sydney simply thought of as The Goop, and slathered Sydney's belly with it before starting the sonogram. With some satisfaction, Sydney studied the slight curve of her abdomen – at least she was finally showing a little. Jenny asked, "No bleeding? Even spotting?"

"No. Nothing like that."

"You having any morning sickness?"

"No, but I wasn't having any before."

Jenny grinned. "There's our little camper. Still along for the ride." The shifting images on the screen revealed a tiny profile, complete with a five-fingered hand, and Sydney found herself waving at it – which was stupid, totally stupid, just like the smile she could feel spreading across her face -- and she didn't care.

How had she ever had the strength to refuse a sonogram before? But thank God she had – she'd never have been able to hide the knowledge of her pregnancy from the world, not after actually seeing her baby for the first time.

Jenny nodded approvingly at the fluttering inside the fetus's chest. "That heart rate is just where it ought to be. If the tranq dose you took had interfered with fetal development, the heartbeat would probably be slower by now. But that ticker's ticking away."

"What about birth defects? Brain function, or deformity, or –"

"The drug they used isn't a teratogen, so you guys should both be OK. That doesn't mean I'm not going to be watching you like a hawk. Though apparently that's this Agent Bristow guy's job."

It felt a little weird to inform her, but it was better to do it right away. "Agent Bristow's my father." Why hadn't he mentioned that himself? Did he just not care?

Jenny sighed melodramatically. "Great. Maniacal boss AND doting grandfather. That guy's never going to leave me alone." Sydney thought this was unlikely, but she kept that to herself.

"Do you mind my asking how you ended up with this job?"

"I'm CIA. Salt Lake City office – at least, usually. Apparently I'm at higher clearance levels than any other OB-GYN connected to an agency hospital. That knowledge makes my heart glow, especially when it's topped off with an all-expenses –paid trip to Antarctica. But hey, six months, one patient? Gives me plenty of time to work on my cross-country skiing." Her eyes narrowed slightly. "To save you any more questions, no, I have no idea why you've decided to spawn at the South Pole. And I'm not going to ask."

Sydney considered telling Jenny that this wasn't her decision at all, but it seemed beside the point. "Great. Don't ask, don't tell."

"Bristow – I mean, your father said he wanted me to run some tests, if it was safe. Right now, I'm not running a damn thing. I'll give him a record of this sonogram, but that's the end of it."

"Really?" Sydney had harbored few hopes that the obstetrician her father brought in wouldn't share his agenda, at least on some level. But apparently he had kept his word and brought in a doctor who was really HER doctor, and her baby's – not just the CIA's.

"So soon after you've been through major physical trauma? No way. Maybe, later in the pregnancy, we might risk amniocentesis. 'Might' being the operative word. For now, your job is to take it easy, you hear me?"

"Absolutely."

Once The Goop had been cleaned up and Sydney was dressed again, they went outside – to find Eric pacing in the hallway. When Sydney smiled at him, he exhaled. "You're okay? The baby's okay?"

"We have to watch to be sure, but it looks like it." Sydney submitted to Eric's enthusiastic bear hug.

Jenny patted him on the shoulder. "This the proud papa?"

"What? No. No way, uh-uh, no." Eric jumped back as though Sydney's body had given him an electrical shock. Sydney started to laugh, until she realized what she had to tell Jenny now.

"The father – Michael Vaughn – he's missing. We don't know where – if – we don't know anything. Eric's here to help me out. He's – I guess he's my best friend." In an attempt to lighten her mood, Sydney raised her eyebrows. "Maybe my Lamaze coach?"

Eric blanched, but he said, "If nominated, I am willing to serve."

"Screw Lamaze," Jenny said. "As soon as your water breaks, you're gonna be begging for drugs, and I'm gonna give them to you. Every woman in labor should have lots and lots of drugs."

"I like her." Eric nodded approvingly.

"You're just saying that because she got you out of Lamaze."

"And this is not a good reason?"

**

Sydney's first priority had been to make sure her baby was all right. This had been accomplished.

Her next priority was escape.

This time of year, Antarctica experienced approximately 20 hours of sunlight a day. That still gave her four hours in which to work – or, at least, to get started. Late at night on the seventh day, she tiptoed down the hallway, easily avoiding the one guard whose job it was to make sure that nobody entered the station, and hadn't thought to make sure nobody left it. A few more guards were on snowmobile patrol; Sydney didn't know their search patterns, so avoiding them would be purely a matter of luck.

Bundled up in cold-weather gear – long underwear, sweater and pants, snowsuit, parka, pants, hood, cap, inner and outer gloves – Sydney made her way to the second metal hut that comprised Mountaineer Station. She paused only a few moments to stare up at the sky, star-filled the way it never was or could be In Los Angeles.

It is beautiful here, Sydney thought, recognizing the stars, noting their places in the sky. I never really got a chance to notice that on my last trip.

Then, shaking off her moment's reverie, she continued on her way, boots crunching in the snow. Slightly taller and even more depressing than the residence, this next building could only be the vehicle shed.

The entry to the shed was unlocked; only in Antarctica, Sydney thought, would her father leave a door open.

Seeing no windows, she risked turning on the light, then swore. Her instincts had been correct: Her father had stocked their station with twenty Alpine snowmobiles and two enormous Snow-Cats, great lumbering transports with tires taller than Sydney's head. The snowmobiles were smaller and less protected than she would have liked for her transport, but how could she possibly slip away in something larger than a tractor-trailer?

Sydney closed her eyes and pictured the night sky with her photographic memory. Judging from the stars' positions, Mountaineer Station was isolated even by Antarctic standards. McMurdo was all the way across the continent, and they weren't far from the ice fields where only the most intrepid and determined scientists ever ventured.

It would be a week's hard travel to the South Pole, Sydney estimated. I could maybe reach Vostok in four or five days – if I was lucky, and the weather was on my side.

"Have you figured out that it's impossible yet?"

Sydney turned to see Eric standing in the doorway, arms crossed. He looked like somebody who'd gotten dressed in a hurry and was not happy to be in the snow at this time of night.

"It's not impossible," Sydney insisted, leaning against one of the Snow-Cat's huge tires, breathing in the strangely comforting scent of rubber. "At least, not for most people. But I'm pregnant. I can't take the kind of risks I used to."

"I can't decide whether to be glad you're being realistic or freaked out that my best friend is completely insane." Eric slammed the door behind him before walking toward her. "Sydney, what is it you think you're going to accomplish?"

"Did you notice the part where I was kidnapped?"

"Did you notice the part where it was for your own protection?"

Sydney fought back the urge to snap at him. She weighed her instinct to leave against the facts she had available, then considered Eric's own likely opinions. Finally, she said, "You believe my father, then."

"Yeah, I do. Your dad couldn't make something like that up on a bet." Eric grimaced, as though he would have liked to smile at the joke, but couldn't quite manage it. "Don't you believe him?"

"Yes," Sydney admitted. "My father's lies are always as simple as he can make them. This – this is complicated."

"Okay, now that we've established that you believe hundreds of people would spend all their time trying to kill you, not to mention Sydney Two: The Sequel, if they knew you were alive – why the hell are you trying to leave the one safe place on planet Earth?"

"Because I didn't choose to come here!" It sounded so childish, when she said it out loud, but it wasn't. No impulse she'd ever had ran deeper than this. "I didn't choose to lose Vaughn! I didn't choose to get pregnant! I didn't choose to leave the CIA! I didn't choose to be the Irenicon or the woman on page 47 or anything to do with Milo Rambaldi – and I'm just so sick – so sick and tired – of never, ever having any control over my life –"

Her throat closed up, and she had to stop talking. Only the sight of Eric's face – fading from anger to guilt comically fast – kept her from crying. "Hey, hey. I'm sorry. I know it's a lot, okay? But we have to keep you safe."

"That's just it. When I think about this baby, I know it's my job to keep him or her safe. My job, not anybody else's. But there's nothing I can do. I feel so helpless."

"Right now, all you can do is trust us, Sydney. I know it doesn't seem like a lot – but given what you and your father have been through, maybe it is."

Could she give her father the benefit of the doubt – even control over her life, for a time – if she thought of it as something she was doing for her child? Sydney knew there was no quick answer to that question. "Maybe. I don't know."

"I'll get you information," Eric promised. "Newspapers and stuff. Backup about what's going on in the world, so we can see for ourselves."

"That would be good." Sydney realized she was starting to relax, to breathe a little deeper.

"And if you ever try to escape again –" As Eric took a deep breath, Sydney prepared herself to be threatened with various jokey-but-dire scenarios. Instead, he finally said, "—let me help you, okay?"

"What? I thought you said leaving was a bad idea!"

"It's a terrible idea. One of the top ten worst ideas ever, and I'm including the TV show 'My Mother the Car' in that listing, so you know I think it's bad. But it's somewhat less dangerously suicidal if you have another person with you."

Eric would abandon his post and risk her father's anger, just to keep her safe – mostly, Sydney realized, from herself. Moved, she reached out and took his hand, wishing for some reason that they didn't have gloves on. "I promise."

"Okay, then." Relieved at last, Eric sighed. "See, you innocently get up in the middle of the night to see if your friend wants to enjoy a relaxing viewing of 'The Birds,' and this is what you get."

"What's relaxing about 'The Birds'?" Sydney asked, slipping her arm into his as they headed back out of the vehicle shed and toward the residence.

"Compared to an apocalyptic plague? Angry seagulls actually look soothing," Eric said, from the depths of this hooded parka. "Hey, the cold's not too bad. This is, what, 17 degrees or so? I can deal with that."

"You're lucky I'm pregnant in the Southern Hemisphere's summer." Sydney stepped gingerly through the snow, grateful for Eric's steadying arm. The cold nipped at her cheeks, but after so many days in the shelter, she was happy to breathe fresh air and rest her head on Eric's shoulder. "My father would have dragged us here in the dead of winter, too, and it can get 100 degrees colder than this."

"Yeah, we'll have to watch for that NEXT time." For some reason, this was the funniest thing Sydney had ever heard, and she laughed so loudly that the sound rang back from the ice.

**

And so her life at Mountaineer Station truly began: filling long hours of inactivity by watching DVDs, talking to Eric or Jenny, or reading the copy of What to Expect When You're Expecting that Jenny had brought with her – at her father's request.

He wouldn't have known the name of this book, Sydney thought, studying the line drawings that explained how breastfeeding was much more complicated than any natural function of the body should be. My father and this book – if you even put them in the same room, I think he'd explode.

But he must have checked a list or a website, found what was recommended, and given it to her. It was a gift. It was the least he could do.

Trust, Sydney thought, reminding herself that it was something she wanted to try for her baby's sake, if not her own. But even curled in the shelter her father had built for her, reading the book he'd given her, it was hard. Sometimes she felt as if all the faith she'd ever had in her father had been burned away when she was a small child – and now she couldn't get it back, not even if he deserved it.

Of course, she still wasn't sure if he deserved it or not.

Sydney seldom saw her father, and probably would never have glimpsed him at all if the residence hadn't been the size of a high-school gym. They met in the hallway once in a while, usually with one of the guards around as a buffer. The guards all seemed to have been chosen by her father for their stolid silence and unceasing zeal for their task. They went on frequent patrols in the Alpine snowmobiles, traveling to the Jamesway huts set up along the perimeter of whatever her father had defined as their area.

Food was mostly canned and incredibly dull, and her craving for bananas burned all the brighter despite the impossibility of ever having them again during her pregnancy; therefore, hanging out in the mess wasn't really an option. If her father was spending time there, she didn't know, and wasn't going to find out.

She and her father remained on opposite sides of the shelter from each other, which was probably for the best. For his part, her father seemed to spend most of his time out on the snowmobile patrols. The farther out the better, in her opinion. The equator seemed about right.

He could be more easily forgiven at a distance.

Then one day, after about three weeks on the ice, Sydney was roused from her first nap of the day by the sound of one of the guards shouting, in an entirely uncharacteristic burst of enthusiasm, "Freshies! We've got some freshies!"

Freshies? Whatever those were, they sounded like good news. No need to get a gun before she went into the hallway, then.

Everyone had congregated in the kitchen, and for the first time, they all seemed to be smiling. Sydney understood why when she saw the cause; a crate had arrived (airdrop?) with fresh food. Eric stacked cuts of meat one atop the other, saying, "Can you grill in Antarctica?"

Jenny held out one hand and gestured to a smaller paper bag with the other. "Hand over the peaches and no one gets hurt."

Eric handed over the peaches, saw Sydney and smiled as he fished something from the crate. "Look what we have here."

"Bananas," Sydney breathed, as reverently as she could have prayed in any church -- a large bunch, perfectly yellow and unbruised, with just the faintest bit of green at the stems. "I've been craving bananas so badly –"

"I know!" Jenny said, laughing as she passed the bunch to Sydney. "Wrote it all over your chart. So this is literally just what the doctor ordered."

Sydney started to thank Jenny, but then she saw the gray-clad figure of her father – as usual, standing apart from them all. If there was something in the crate of fresh food he wanted, he gave no sign. But she saw his eyes following her as she took the bananas, and though anyone else would have said he was expressionless, she knew him well enough to tell that he was pleased.

At first, she wanted to scream that she couldn't be bought that easily. Then she imagined him bargaining for them, however he did that; her father kept things to essentials, but he had gone to the trouble to get her something she wanted.

"This is great," Sydney muttered, ducking out of the kitchen and going back to her room. For a long time, she just stared at them. Even their yellow peels seemed brilliant, almost unnatural, in their dingy surroundings. Should she accept this gift or not?

Trust, she thought. For the baby's sake, I can let myself trust him. A little. Maybe.

They were the best bananas she'd ever had.

**

III.

 

**Montreal, Quebec, Canada**

 

She was waiting for him at Dorval, though he had neither asked for nor anticipated the courtesy. As Sark strolled past the lines of security screeners, he saw Irina sitting on a bench – wearing no sunglasses or scarf or wig, just plain black clothing. All the guards with their metal detectors and lists of suspicious individuals couldn't be bothered to turn around and see the terrorist in their midst.

As his greeting he said only, "I had thought you would make contact later."

"A waste of time."

Irina had engaged a driver for them, unusual for her; normally she did not like to trust underlings with any job she could manage herself. As they slid into the back seat of the waiting car, Sark raised an eyebrow.

She smiled joylessly. "These days, my hands shake."

He thought it a joke, albeit one lacking in humor. But before the first day was out, Sark realized Irina was telling the truth. When he pointed out the likely location of Sloane's hideout, the various routes they might take, her fingers trembled slightly on the table. It wasn't fear – Sark knew Irina far better than that – but it was not at all the flawless, diamond-hard control he expected.

Her questions were as intelligent as they had ever been; her planning was still inspired. But the men she'd employed listened to her with respect, not with the odd elixir of fear and awe that Sark remembered so well. Nor could he muster up that feeling himself, though it had once governed almost his entire existence.

Was it the knowledge that her most important plan had failed? No, Sark decided – it was not the fact that he knew it, but the fact that she knew it. The hunger that had once illuminated her from within was now extinguished. Without that wild and dangerous energy, Irina was – less than she had been Her face was now merely an excellent likeness, like a portrait in oils that replicated features but held no promise, no peril, no life.

The days when her gaze turned men to stone are over, Sark thought. Medusa has seen the mirror, and now she cannot look away.

In a way, it made a perverse sort of sense. Only the Apocalypse could ever break Irina Derevko – and here they were. Sark also found it fitting that the end of the world had been signaled by Sydney Bristow's death; he would have attempted to express his strange and contradictory sorrows for Sydney to her mother, if he had thought she would listen without trying to put a knife through his hand, or his heart.

As their focus sharpened, so did their words. "No matter how remote Sloane's location, we can assume that he has every route to his home watched constantly," she said.

"High-tech surveillance?" Sark considered that more likely than any human guards, at least until they reached the house itself. "We can sweep for that, and stay off the roads."

"You don't know Sloane as I do." And thank God, Sark thought, though he was certainly not mad enough to say such a thing aloud. "He's almost certainly mined the land between roads. We'll have to go in along with a transport he's expecting – food, supplies, something like that."

He saw her logic, though he chafed at yet another delay. "We can send some people ahead and find out how he's structured those arrangements. After that, we can disrupt them. I would like the layout of the house before we move in."

"Agreed. We'll have to hack into a satellite with heat-imaging capabilities. That could take a couple of weeks."

Again, delays. Sark managed not to sigh. "When we do move in – I take it we should leave Sloane for you to kill?"

"Don't be absurd. If anyone – any of you –" she repeated, looking around the room at each of them in turn, "gets a shot at Arvin Sloane, take it. I don't need drama. I want results."

Sark needed drama. "I admire your restraint, but I fear I do not share it. You see, I wish to be the one to kill Michael Vaughn."

Irina's eyes bored into his with something approaching her former intensity. "We never discussed that."

"I didn't think we had to." She didn't like the idea; Sark had known that reaction was possible, but he had not considered it probable. He would have to choose his tactics wisely. "You have unfinished business with his father, after all."

"I'll have justice from his father. I have no use for a proxy."

"For my justice, no proxy will do." Time to be blunt – though he was risking their partnership, and quite possibly his life: "She cannot mourn him."

Irina shoved herself back from the table and stalked out of the room. It was a better initial response than Sark had hoped for. For the rest of the evening, he made phone calls to his contacts in Mexico as the first steps in his research. There was no reason not to proceed with the plan.

The next morning, Irina breakfasted with him in silence – excellent Eggs Benedict. She always could find a good chef. Sark dedicated himself entirely to enjoying his meal and watching for any sudden moves from the guards.

After she had swallowed her last bite, she said only, "I make no promises."

"I require none."

Probably, when the time came, Irina would try to stop him.

When the time came, Sark would not be stopped.

**


	11. Chapter 11

IV.

 

Nadia had of course studied all the constellations of the Northern Hemisphere, but she was still working to weave together the lines and dots she'd memorized on charts with the sky she saw overhead every night.

No city lights for many miles in every direction, she thought as she stared upward, ignoring the foam of cold seawater lapping against her bare feet. Nothing but me and the sky.

What had Sydney thought, the first time she saw the lights of the Southern sky? Was it this beautiful, this calm, this perfect? Given the little Nadia knew of her late sister's work, she suspected it had not been. Probably Sydney had been on a mission, running for her life, unable to take the time even to look up.

How long would I have known her before I asked her that? Nadia wondered. Would I ever have asked her, if she hadn't died? Would we have had talks like that? Would we even have liked each other?

Perhaps she was only grieving for the absence of a relationship that would never have been. Nadia had known enough loss in her life to understand how beautiful everything looked in a rear-view mirror.

The door that led from the kitchen opened up, and Nadia gazed back over her shoulder to see Michael walking toward her – carrying a plate?

"Hey." His smile was almost sheepish. "Chicken sandwiches appear to be the preferred form of olive branch around here."

Nadia stared down at the lettuce-rimmed bread. "You don't owe me an olive branch."

"I said some things to you that were out of line."

"You didn't mean them," Nadia said. She didn't know if this was true – it was entirely possible that Michael meant every word, but that he was simply apologizing for speaking them aloud. But if that was the case, she preferred not to know.

"You turned out to have most of the ingredients in the kitchen. The guards watched me pretty closely the whole time. I don't think they trust me around the knives yet."

The guards were wise. "I'll have to ask them the recipe, then. This sauce is delicious."

"Leave me some secrets, okay?"

Michael's joke was more than a joke, of course. The flash of understanding as their gazes met confirmed that for her – and confirmed some other, more inconvenient developments as well. Quickly, she turned her head to stare out at the sea. But at nighttime, it was just darkness, lined with pale streaks of foam.

"Seriously – Nadia –" Michael touched her shoulder, and Nadia tried not to enjoy the warmth of his hand through her thin cotton blouse. "We're all we've got, in this place. I hope I didn't ruin that by acting the way I did."

I have my father, she wanted to tell him. But she did not want to hear Michael's reply. "You didn't. I understand completely." Nadia turned and smiled, so that he would believe her. But that just forced her to see him in the moonlight, concerned and gentle, and the way his face looked when he wasn't angry.

Even her father's palace had its dangers.

"What is it?" Michael could sense her dismay; either she was a bad spy or he was a good one.

"Don't try to play me," Nadia said. "If you're rude to me and you mean it, that's better than acting nice to me if you don't."

He hesitated, then said, "I'm not the one trying to play you."

Conversation over, she thought. But she could feel his gaze on her as she made her way back to the house.

Nadia could not sleep that night, and she paced the confines of her room – the highest in the house, set apart in a curving tower that must have once been a place to watch for ships. Michael's tacit accusation of her father disturbed her, far more deeply than she could ever admit. It was easier to concentrate on her reaction to Michael himself, though this troubled her also. Desire had no place in her life, not now. Not with him.

And yet – when had she given herself the freedom to desire? Nadia had spent most of her life trying to teach herself not to want, not anything or anyone. It saved her from much disappointment. The men who wanted her she entertained, to a degree that depended on how much they entertained her. This had always worked reasonably well.

It would not work with Michael Vaughn.

All those years, she thought, I told myself my father was not coming, not to hold up my life and wait for him. And yet he came and rescued me, just as I always dreamed he would. Maybe – maybe Michael –

Sick of her own foolishness, Nadia slipped into her robe and opened the window. Cool, salty air swept across her face; perhaps it would have a sobering effect.

Then, beneath her, she glimpsed movement.

Staring, Nadia realized that Michael was standing on the deck. Was he unable to sleep as well? For the same reasons, or – no. Michael lowered himself off the side of the deck, and in that first moment, she was certain that he was about to attempt an escape. But he hung there for a few seconds, then propelled himself toward the house. Beyond that she could not see – the deck itself blocked her view – but she knew he'd gone back into the house – into a different room.

What was on that level? The kitchen, the wine cellar, the garage – none of which had doors or windows in that area. Nadia's eyes narrowed.

She waited for the hour or so it took for Michael to reappear. When he had hoisted himself back up to the deck again, he glanced around for the guards, but fortunately, he never looked up.

After another half-hour, Nadia tiptoed downstairs, went out on the deck and lowered herself over the same way she'd seen Michael do it. The small window there didn't excite her curiosity at first – she had ridden her horse past it a dozen times or more – until she asked herself what room it belonged to.

None of the rooms in the house correlated to that window. Correction: none that she knew about. Nadia cursed herself for not having realized it before, then dropped soundlessly to the sand.

Should she go in? Instantly, she decided against it – that would be the same as admitting to her father that she didn't trust him, and Nadia had decided months ago that she would. She had to. He had given her so much love, such dedication – how else could she repay him?

Of course, that didn't mean she couldn't look in. Nadia remembered the needles her father had put in her arm too. Even a good man could have secrets.

Pressing her face to the glass, Nadia angled herself to peer through the crack between the curtains. She could distinguish no more than outlines in the darkness, but instead of a lab or an armory, she saw an ordinary office, with an ordinary computer. At first she was relieved, then alarmed – what if Michael had sent word of their location to the CIA? – then puzzled. Michael's movements that night had looked practiced; this wasn't the first time he'd broken into the computer room. If he could have sent a message, he would have, and they would already be under siege. Could he be spying, long-term? Nadia considered this possibility and then discounted it; his desire for freedom radiated from him every moment, like heat. He would have demanded to leave, if he could.

So what was Michael doing?

She could ask him. But then she would have to learn the answer.

She could report this to Papa, who could certainly find out what Michael had been doing. But then – she would have to betray Michael.

Do it, she thought. What is there between you to betray?

It would be so easy. One conversation with her father – who would be so grateful, so relieved – and then Michael's secrets would be revealed. He wouldn't come to her anymore with words of caution she didn't want to hear, wouldn't linger outside her window reminding her of all the things she wanted and couldn't have.

Michael had said, "We're all we've got, in this place." Even if she didn't have to rely on him – and she didn't, absolutely not – Michael relied on her.

She crawled back into bed, sick at heart and more confused than ever. For hours she watched the moon make its slow transit across the sky, taking the place of her dreams.

**

V.

 

For almost six months, Jack had been wondering what he would say to Irina, if he ever saw her again.

At first, when he was reading the initial reports of the Rain of Gold, Jack's anger had only intensified. His mind reverberated with words that, spoken aloud, would only reveal weakness. But he thought them at the woman who had betrayed him and condemned Sydney in order to ensure her own glory and ruin the world: Whore. Bitch. Cunt. Jack imagined murdering her with a variety of methods, the way he suspected other people daydreamed about luxuries while browsing through catalogs. Sometimes he imagined Sloane watching. These particular fantasies always left him feeling sick in a way the reality of homicide never had. But he had them nonetheless.

Other times, he imagined simply asking her why. A variety of possible responses she might make occurred to him, and they all left him as sick as the dreams of her death.

Then Katya had shown him the letter. When Jack had finished reading it a third time, he had memorized her words, and so he burned the paper in a candle's flame. His murderous rage at Irina floated upward with the ashes, vanishing into the air.

Jack was still angry, but the character of his anger had changed; instead of the slow burn of betrayal and helplessness, he felt the quick fire of needless waste. Irina could have told him – at any point between her walk-in at the CIA and Sloane's capture, she could have disclosed the truth. He knew himself well enough to realize that he would have been furious at the revelation regardless of the circumstances, but he also knew that his anger would have been pushed aside to deal with the very real crisis at hand.

And the crisis could have been dealt with. Together, he and Irina could have found Nadia; Sloane would never even have known. If Irina had found it difficult to kill Nadia, Jack could easily have taken that burden from her. He disliked the idea – Nadia's resemblance to both Irina and Sydney had shaken him deeply -- but he was also aware that the girl's death had been the most certain way of preventing the plague. It was too late for that now. Had Irina thought she could do it all herself? Had she planned some other endgame, some other set of tricks to cheat them all? If so, she had failed.

But ever since they had arrived in Antarctica, and Sydney had broken the news, Jack could think of only one thing to say to Irina: Sydney's having a baby.

That was it – just that single sentence. Although Jack was not verbose by nature, words had never deserted him as utterly as when he tried to imagine telling Irina about Sydney's pregnancy. Jack Bristow and Irina Derevko, grandparents. How was that possible?

The baby's potential role in curing the plague was a relief, but Jack found himself thinking of that less as the days went on. Instead he wondered how it was possible that anything in the world still had the power to make him both this worried and this happy.

How would Irina feel? Jack found that he couldn't guess. Thirty-five years after their wedding, he still did not know her well enough to say.

As he logged onto the station's single computer one afternoon in November, he never considered attempting to send word to Irina of Sydney's pregnancy. His imaginings were just that; Jack had no intention of revealing anything so potentially dangerous to Sydney via e-mail, no matter how secure. Besides, Irina had apparently cut herself off from their old lines of contact – he might as well shout the words into an empty room. She did not know. She would not know. And he had work to do.

His e-mail consisted of a message not from Dixon – the only person who should have been contacting him – but Marshall. Jack read it, his mood darkening by the second.

Sydney would have to hear this.

After a moment's contemplation, Jack decided that Weiss should be the one to talk to her. As yet, Sydney seemed oblivious to the man's doglike devotion to her; Jack did not care about Weiss' emotions one way or the other, except for their effect on Sydney. Thus far, Weiss appeared to be a source of strength for her. She would hear such bad news better from a friend.

But when he walked into the hallway, he saw Sydney first – her hair tucked back into a ponytail, wearing an oversized flannel shirt that could only have been Weiss'. Jack made a mental note to find out how to obtain maternity clothes. "What's wrong?" she said. Sometimes, she could read him too well.

"Where's Weiss?"

"On Alpine patrol. Said he needed to get better at steering the snowmobiles anyway." She shifted on her feet. "Why?"

No getting around it. "There's something I have to tell you."

Sydney followed him into the small office he'd established, obviously uneasy as she sat down on the one chair. "What now?" Her eyes flashed. "You said you'd told me everything –"

"This is different." Jack took a deep breath. "In Los Angeles, the CIA tried out a version of the Covenant's vaccine against the Rain of Gold."

"If it had worked, you wouldn't look like that."

"It failed. Worse than that, apparently at least 25 percent of those given the vaccine have come down with the disease. As the Rain of Gold has a long incubation period, it's reasonable to expect that percentage to increase. The good news is that it appears to be more effective on children than adults; only one person under 18 has become sick so far."

Sydney nodded, taking that in. She had to realize where he was leading, even if she could not guess the particulars. "What's the bad news?"

"The first agent has died." There was no softening this blow. "It was Marcus Dixon."

She gasped, her body rigid with shock. "Oh, no. No. Not Dixon –"

"The disease progressed quickly, for him." That was a mercy, although Jack would not describe it as such to Sydney.

"When – when did he –"

"Two days ago."

Sydney was trembling now, tears welling in her eyes. Jack could hardly bear the sight of Sydney crying; it punctured his defenses more powerfully than anything else could. "Are you sure? Somebody could be feeding us false intel –"

"The message came from Marshall directly. Sydney, it's true."

It took her almost a minute to say her next words. "He was such a good man. I think he was the best person I ever knew."

Jack realized that he almost agreed with her. He knew of nobody more courageous or more principled, save for Sydney herself.

"Dixon – Marcus – oh, God, Robin and Stephen. How are they? Where are they?"

"Apparently they're staying with Marshall Flinkman and his family for the time being."

Sydney wiped her cheeks – a useless endeavor, as she was still weeping. "He deserved better than this. I can't believe –"

At that point her sobs overwhelmed her, and she sagged forward in her chair, hanging onto the seat. Jack hated to see her so miserable, and hated even more that he could offer her no comfort. A few months ago, he might have hugged her or at least taken her hand. But now she had to endure her sorrow alone, and he had to endure the knowledge that he had forfeited the right to help her.

Offering a handkerchief seemed acceptable. Sydney took it without a word.

When at last she could speak again, Sydney said, her voice hard, "You recruited Dixon into SD-6. He wasted – decades of his life there."

Jack braced himself. "Yes."

"Why did you do that? Knowing how good he was?"

"His ability was one of the reasons why I did it. Maintaining my cover at SD-6 meant performing tasks expected of someone at my level of seniority. That included recruiting the finest talent available." Dixon had been a junior analyst for an investment group, young and smart and insightful, clearly hungry for more. That plus the black belt had been reason enough to look further. "I always meant to recruit him again someday, but events unfolded differently."

Sydney studied his face carefully. "Recruit him again? You mean –"

"I always knew that my CIA work would require the help of a second double agent eventually. It was a hazardous role to play, so I never wanted it to be you. Dixon – he had the skills. He had integrity. I still believe he would have been a good choice."

Dixon would also have looked out for Sydney, no matter what.

"He would have accepted the CIA's offer, despite the danger." She seemed utterly certain. "You liked him, didn't you?"

Jack weighed his answer. Marcus Dixon had not been his friend, not in any meaningful definition of the word, but he had been something even more rare. "I trusted him."

Sydney began crying again, and started telling stories: her first mission with Dixon, the time he taught her how to use a hang-glider about five minutes before they leaped from a mountainside, the look in his eyes when she told him SD-6 was a lie. At first Jack felt almost panicked – how was he supposed to respond to this? – but soon he realized that no response was expected. She only wanted a listener, and he would do.

It had always been like this – Sydney would turn to him, if her need was great enough and there was nobody else there, no one at all. Jack wished she did not have to turn to him now.

When they heard voices in the hallway, she lifted her head. "Eric's back. He should know about this."

"Go," Jack said, though she did not need his release.

To his surprise, she paused in the doorway. "Thanks. For – well, thanks."

He nodded as he watched her go, and refused to let himself hope.

**

VI.

 

"I can't stop wondering – why the diary?"

Of all the questions Vaughn had asked his father during their months in Mexico, this one was probably the most sincere.

"You read that, huh?" Bill's smile could have been wry, or it could have been cynical, or he could just have been squinting in the morning sun. The longer Vaughn knew his father, the less he assumed he understood the man's reactions.

"You wrote it to be read," Vaughn pointed out. "You wouldn't have lied in it, otherwise."

"People lie to themselves all the time. You understand that, I'm sure."

"Was that the lie you were telling yourself? That you liked being a family man? That you always followed the CIA's orders?"

Bill looked out at the expanse of sand and rock that formed their eastern horizon. "I don't know what the hell your mother was thinking."

"She cut out – certain pages." Those would have been the ones that dealt with their relationship. Had his father ever really loved his mother? Vaughn had begun to doubt that; Bill would listen to information about her, but he never asked even one question. No point in asking about it, though; a negative answer would only hurt, and a positive answer would tell him nothing of use. Vaughn was getting better at that, at sorting everything into two simple categories: useful or useless.

His dad was still in the first category. Vaughn hoped he was moving swiftly toward the day his dad would enter the second.

"When it became apparent that we were looking at a schism – that some people were going to leave the CIA – I was assigned to infiltrate them." Bill was still smiling.

"You always intended to join them."

"Not always. I was out of the loop, before the CIA filled me in. But as soon as I heard that, I knew which way the wind was blowing. Everything I wrote in the diary before that day was the truth. Everything after that day was designed to be read after I was gone. But not by you."

What day was that? Vaughn had spent years with that diary; he'd memorized some passages, not on purpose, just through reading it over and over again. If he could pick it up again (if he ever got back home, he would), and Bill gave him a date, Vaughn would be able to draw the line. This is my real father; this is the lie.

Maybe it was better not to know.

"We thought they'd killed you."

"The report of my death – that was a cover. The CIA helped me fake it; the Covenant knew about it. The plan, as far as the CIA knew, was for me to show up a few months later with Covenant intel. Then I could reclaim my life, come home to you." Vaughn loathed the depth of feeling in his father's eyes as he said, "I hated doing that to you, son. I kept thinking I could maybe come get you, take you with me someday. Just dreams. Moments like those – that's when people lie to themselves."

He meant it. He absolutely meant it. Vaughn decided he didn't hate his father's lies half as much as he hated those moments when he told the truth.

"It's not just a dream, Dad. You came and got me." Gesturing at the wide rooms of the beach house, he added, "And you put me in the most luxurious prison the world's ever seen."

"Don't be so sure until you talk to Martha Stewart." Vaughn couldn't prevent the laugh, and Bill seemed encouraged. "I realize you're frustrated. But the way things are looking – you won't have to remain in the dark much longer."

I'm not as much in the dark as you think, Dad.

Bill continued, "This is just time for us to get to know each other. Time for you to relax. I think you needed some time to relax, didn't you?"

"This isn't how I would have chosen for it to happen." And yet, on some level, Vaughn knew he had healed in this place; despite the violence of his abduction, and the still-wrenching sense of loss he felt for Sydney, he knew that he was stronger now than before. He'd had a breakdown after his abduction, but by now, Vaughn had realized that breakdown had been approaching long before he saw his father again.

"When you know the full story – you're not going to blame me any longer." Bill's eyes were alight with that febrile energy again, the one that reminded him of Sloane. "You'll see that everything has been for the best. And Michael – the whole world will be yours."

By now, Vaughn knew a lot of the story. The Rain of Gold – the immortality that would follow. That was his father's idea of glory. But it was never going to come to pass, not if Vaughn could prevent it.

To prevent it, he would need help.

**

Nadia always asked Vaughn to ride with her in the afternoons; he always said no, preferring to watch her while he walked. Besides, he exercised in his room, at night, in private – the better to conceal from his father and Sloane that he was staying in shape, even getting stronger.

But this time, Vaughn said yes. Nadia's face lit up as though she'd been given a gift, and Vaughn felt a twinge of guilt for not having gone with her before.

"You take the brown mare," Nadia said. "She's gentle."

"You're not giving me a lot of credit here." The last time he had ridden a horse, he had been in the desert with Sydney. He wouldn't think about that. Instead he swung up into the saddle easily. If Nadia was impressed, or just relieved, she gave no sign. She merely took her place on her gray gelding and clucked once with her tongue. Both horses responded to her, and they were off.

The wind was fresh and cool with the scent of seawater. Instead of grueling pushups on his bedroom floor, Vaughn felt the pure physical pleasure of exertion – muscles working in concert, guiding the horse, steadying his seat. Nadia's horse was faster than his, or her riding more skilled; she remained ahead of him, dark hair streaming behind her, laughter ringing out over the sound of the waves and the hoofbeats.

Sydney would have liked her, Vaughn decided. And though his decision had already been made, that thought helped him feel more certain about his decision.

When she finally slowed her horse's pace, Vaughn matched her. They were side by side, looking out over the water; the guards and their horses were within sight, but out of earshot. That would do.

"You're better than I thought," Nadia said. "This – this is nice, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it is." He paused only a moment longer before saying, "I wanted to talk to you about something, and I'm not sure you're going to like it."

The wind blew strands of hair across her face, slightly obscuring his view of her face. "If this is about my father –"

"Let's take the personalities out of it, okay? This is about – a plan. Something that some Rambaldi followers want to do, and that involves a lot of people – Nadia, I'm talking about thousands, maybe millions of people dying."

She thought it was nonsense – he could see that in her eyes – but she spoke calmly. "Did you find this out during one of your midnight jaunts?"

Vaughn felt a shiver of panic, but controlled himself. All right. Nadia had seen him. But she hadn't reported him, or the window would have been locked, the computer moved. "Yeah, I did. You should come with me, one night."

"We'll see. I'm listening."

Now that he'd come to it, Vaughn found the news surprisingly difficult to break. He forced himself to imagine the briefing he'd give to Dixon when he finally returned to the CIA, summarizing as succinctly as he could: the Rain of Gold, the plague, his belief that it was the plague itself that would bring about Rambaldi's promise of immortality, but only at the cost of many lives.

She listened, wordless. Vaughn had one final suspicion – the one he knew would be most devastating to her – but he kept it to himself. Either Nadia would help him or she wouldn't; attacking her father's proclaimed devotion to her was the surest way to drive her off.

"This is fantasy," Nadia said at last. "Like a horror movie."

"Your birth was foretold by a mystic 500 years ago, and you're still writing threats off as fantasy?"

"Maybe I don't trust you to judge."

Remembering a few of his more spectacular stunts – trying to kill Sloane with a wineglass, lying on his floor for days on end, the half-assed hunger strike – made Vaughn realize for the first time just how little credibility he'd earned. If she wouldn't go to the computer room with him for proof, the truth would have to come from within her.

"You said – when you were talking to the CIA about the effect of the Rambaldi serum – that it hurt terribly, but it inspired profound visions. They were – what was the word? – transcendent. In those moments, you saw more of Rambaldi's mind than anyone else ever has or ever will. Just answer this one question for me, Nadia, and I'll never ask you again: Did you see anything that might have been a part of what I just told you? About the Rain of Gold?"

Nadia stared at him for a few moments, then kicked her horse's sides so that it took off, galloping along the shoreline.

"I'll take that as a yes," Vaughn murmured.

**


	12. Chapter 12

_"And who are you?" she sternly spoke  
To the one beneath the smoke.  
"Why, I'm fire," he replied,  
"And I love your solitude, I love your pride."_

"Then, fire, make your body cold,  
I'm going to give you mine to hold."  
Saying this she climbed inside  
To be his one, to be his only bride.  
And deep into his fiery heart  
He took the dust of Joan of Arc,  
And high above the wedding guests  
He hung the ashes of her wedding dress.

It was deep into his fiery heart  
He took the dust of Joan of Arc  
And then she clearly understood  
If he was fire, oh, then she must be wood.  
I saw her wince, I saw her cry,  
I saw the glory in her eye.   
Myself I long for love and light,  
But must it come so cruel, and oh so bright?

\--"Joan of Arc," Leonard Cohen

 

IRENICON: Book Six

 

I.

 

Brisbane, Australia

 

In the winter of 1944, the hopes of the entire Soviet Rambaldi program lay with Boris and Olga Derevko. Rambaldi's work might lead to victory in the war, and this child – the central figure in so many of the prophecies – could lead to Rambaldi's work.

When Olga gave birth to a girl, everyone was relieved. France had neither produced nor exported any Champagne that year, but a celebration was held nonetheless; every privilege was accorded to the family. "Everything for the next generation," was the catchphrase, repeated to and by the Derevkos as they showed off their daughter. She was given the name chosen for her by destiny, hundreds of years before her birth: Irina.

But within a few months, rumors had begun to circulate. Rambaldi had been quite specific about certain astrological markers in the child's chart, and the Derevko infant's month-early debut meant that these planets were all misplaced. Without Venus or Mercury in alignment, how could this be the prophesied child?

The answer, of course, was that she could not. Before Irina turned six months old, she was renamed Elena, disregarded and left to a fairly normal life. It would be up to the Derevkos to do better next time. They remained in their privileged apartment, kept the raise in pay. But both Boris and Olga understood that results were expected. Everything for the next generation --

Three years later, they made good on the hopes of the Rambaldi followers. Another daughter, another Irina. Her astrological chart had some irregularities as well, but they seemed minor, and the girl was so healthy and so quick that people were willing to overlook these blemishes. By this time, Stalin had taken an acute interest in their work – and expected results. He was not a man who thought in terms of generations or centuries. Therefore, this baby was their Irina, no arguments or questions, and no arrests in the dead of night for her failure to appear.

Other signs were due to appear in the sky, as the child grew. The portents never appeared.

Fortunately for all the Derevkos, the second daughter was not authoritatively declared not to be the child of the prophecy until Olga's third pregnancy had begun. Just before her fourth birthday, Irina was told that her name was not hers any longer; she was to give it to her little sister, just as her big sister had done for her.

It made sense, to a 4-year-old. Besides, she liked "Yekaterina," especially her new nickname.

When the third baby was born, there were no mistakes, no missing auguries, no doubts. She was Irina, and would always be. From that time on, the burden of expectations passed from Boris and Olga to the small shoulders of their youngest daughter, who never flinched from the weight.

All in all, Katya thought, she did not envy Irina much of it. Certainly not the destiny, difficult and painful as it had proved to be, nor the children she had borne and lost – not even the name that she first remembered as being her own. She still liked her nickname best.

The one thing Katya had ever envied Irina – well. They'd shared him along with the name.

They shared one more thing as well: a Rambaldi bloodline, ancestors whose lives the prophet had seen and deemed important centuries ago. That bloodline had shaped their existence since long before either of them had been born; it was supposed to protect them now.

But apparently not, Katya thought, as she sat in the emergency room of Brisbane's Mater Misercordiae Hospital.

She had been waiting a long time for a doctor to see her, and she expected to wait far longer. The ER was lined with people, all of whom were pale with fear, all of whom had bloodshot eyes. Katya hid hers behind Dior sunglasses. She still had some sense of style, after all, and she had faced death far too often to panic now.

Instead, Katya calculated likely outcomes, based on what she now knew. The Rambaldi followers who had dedicated so much time and energy had believed that their bloodlines or their vaccines would protect them from the devastation they planned to visit on so many others. Already, many of the vaccines had proved faulty if not useless; now she knew that even DNA was no guarantee of safety.

Naturally she would have preferred a different form of proof. But if the alternatives were this and an unnaturally eternal life bought at such gory cost – Katya would gladly take death.

Many others would die who had also thought themselves safe, and they would not take it gladly at all. Katya smiled, thinking of the panic to come. Was it too much to hope that Arvin Sloane might be among the fallen?

But after the doctors had finally seen her and checked her into a room – a small one, packed with three others, all strangers to her, because private rooms were no longer available – Katya's courage failed her for a moment. She lay in the bed, and could only think: This is the bed I will die in. This is the last place I will ever go. That window is probably the last thing I will ever see. For a woman who had spent her life changing names and locales as often as most people changed clothing, the absolute finality of it shook her.

And so Katya did something she knew she should not have done. She pulled out her Blackberry and sent one simple message. It was foolish to think there would be an answer of any sort – but at least now she had something to wonder about. One factor of her ever-shorter life remained unknown. Katya liked variables.

As the days wore on, and her fevers climbed higher and higher before breaking, Katya concentrated on what games she could create, what little diversion she could create for herself. One of four nurses attended her, depending on the shift; Katya used South African, Italian, Scottish and French accents in turns, creating a different life history for each to think about. Soon she would begin blurring the details in her confusion, but for now, it was something to do.

When she was alone, and the crying and ranting of her roommates did not disturb her too greatly, she would let her mind wander back to girlhood, and all the games she had played with Irina. "You won't get to keep your name forever," Katya had insisted, pushing her baby sister in a swing. "They'll make you pick a new one!"

"No, they won't. I'm Irina. The only Irina!"

"You'll see!" Katya had shouted, laughing when Irina let go at the highest point in the swing's arc, as if to launch herself into space.

For the first time, Katya realized she'd been right after all, about Irina picking a new name. Funny how things turned out.

The next day, she heard an odd chirping. It was a measure of her feverish confusion that it took her a while to recognize the sound of her Blackberry signaling an e-mail. There it was, in all caps: CONTACT ME AT THE USUAL ACCOUNT.

Her fingers clumsy in her illness, Katya nonetheless managed to slip into the chat room. He was already waiting there for her. She tapped out, "I had given up hoping for you to contact me. I'm glad you did."

"I'M SORRY FOR THE DELAY. SECURITY." After a moment, more words appeared: "THE INVITATION WAS SINCERE."

To join them in Antarctica – to be safe. Jack had made the offer with no intent to renew their affair, she suspected; however, many months together on the ice would probably have created a thaw. Had that tempted her to go to him or held her back? Katya would never be sure. "I thought it would be a risk to both of you. And I thought myself safe. You can take nothing for granted any longer. Nobody can."

"I SHOULD HAVE INSISTED."

"No regrets, not now. They've ceased to be a luxury. Tell me something else, something happy, if you know of any such thing."

She expected to hear that Sydney was well, or that the base was safe. Jack's happiness would be rooted in such pragmatic things. But instead, he typed, "EVERYTHING FOR THE NEXT GENERATION."

What did he mean by quoting her parents at her? She had told him that story to give him a bit of perspective, though whether on her life or Irina's it would have been hard to say –

The next generation. People putting all their hopes upon a child.

Sydney. Pregnant. And the Irenicon – she would provide the cure by giving birth to the cure. Why had none of them guessed before?

And beyond the consequences for the Rain of Gold – Sydney was having a baby. Jack and Irina would be grandparents. Her little sister a babushka. Katya felt all the decades of her life swirling upward, away from her; she was leaving this world, but now it was easier to let go.

"I'm glad. For so many reasons."

"I KNEW YOU WOULD BE."

"Thank you for telling me." Revealing such dangerous information, even to a woman on her deathbed, was the greatest sign of trust Jack Bristow could ever have given. Katya had thought the boundaries of their romance were very carefully defined; now, she was not so sure. Another mystery left to her, in the few days of her life: Katya was grateful for it.

"THANK YOU FOR HELPING HER. AND HELPING ME." He meant her assistance in presenting Sydney's murder. Perhaps he also meant their nights together when they both believed Irina had betrayed him for the sake of the Rain of Gold.

"I owed you both that much." The temptation to keep him talking was strong; he was the last person she would talk to in her life that she cared about. And yet she still had debts to pay. "You must go. You're risking security even with this."

"YES." After another brief pause, "I'LL REMEMBER."

Blinking away tears, Katya typed back, "Goodbye." She broke the connection before he could say – or not say – anything more.

For a few long minutes, she struggled with her own response to Jack. I can go through this alone, she thought, knowing she was quoting him, but unable to untangle the contradiction. The only comfort was thinking of the child, the joy that still remained to Jack and Sydney's lives, the cure that could yet undo most of the harm that the twisted worship of Rambaldi had done.

Too late for some of us, she thought – but soon enough.

Katya considered a few other issues, weighed the risks, and took the Blackberry up again. She arranged for the placement of an advertisement in the London Times in – make it the Friday two weeks from now, she decided. That should give me time to die.

The text of the ad was innocuous. Decoded, it would reveal only one thing – Katya had no time to devise a more elaborate code to protect additional information. But that one piece of data should be enough, if only it would be seen by the right eyes. Katya would never know.

Her last task done, she shut off the Blackberry for the last time. She gazed around the hospital room, realizing again that it was the final place she would dwell in her life. But there was one great mystery left, and Katya was determined to meet it with eyes wide open.

**

II.

 

Okay, Sydney thought, these are not my breasts. These are some other woman's breasts.

She was staring at herself in the station's only mirror, a fairly small one in the communal bathroom. Showers could last no longer than three minutes – melting snow for water took precious energy – but she felt free to linger after she was done, studying the new contours of her body.

Her belly was making up for lost time, expanding rapidly – by the day, even. Sydney stared in fascination at her own profile, then turned to examine the thin, deep brown line tracing downward from her navel. Astonishing as that was, today's special guest stars were the boobs. They'd gone up a cup size early in her pregnancy, and Sydney had noticed how sensitive they were – even her silkiest bras sometimes seemed almost irritating. But in the past week or so, a second transformation had taken place, and these – these just were not the breasts she'd been walking around with for 15 years.

This is some other woman's body, Sydney thought again. This can't be me.

And yet, when she put her hand on her belly, all those doubts fell aside.

There was a Sydney Before and a Sydney After. The line of demarcation wasn't Vaughn's disappearance or even learning of her pregnancy; it was awakening in Antarctica, knowing the truth about her history and her destiny, and feeling that the baby within her was real. The new body and surroundings seemed to reflect the new person inside.

Later that day, she tried to share her thoughts with Eric. But he was unconvinced.

"You're the same Sydney Bristow I knew in Los Angeles," he said, stretched across the foot of her bed. One of the few entertainment options her father had thought to provide was a deck of cards, and Eric was dealing them a couple of poker hands. "A wider Sydney. A baby-on-board Sydney. But still Sydney."

She picked up her hand. Three kings. "It's not the same. Nothing's the same."

"You mean – being a mom. That changes everything, I guess."

"That's the biggest part of it." While pretending to mull over her hand, she continued, "I know I have someone to be strong for, and it makes me stronger."

"You've always been strong. Syd, you're the strongest person I know."

"Was I the strongest person you knew last year? When I couldn't go a day without crying about Vaughn being with Lauren, and I couldn't even be grateful for all the good stuff in my life because I'd lost him?"

Eric carefully folded his cards onto the heavy blanket, then said, "Given what you'd been through? Yes."

He always sees the best in me, Sydney thought, in more despair than gratitude. "I lost Vaughn all over again, but this time – I can endure it. I hate it, but I can't give in to depression the way I used to. This baby's going to rely on me." She tossed away the other two cards, hoping idly that Eric wasn't as good at concentrating on two different levels as she was.

"So – you –" Clearly, he didn't know quite what to say. Sydney nodded slightly, giving him permission to blurt it out. "You really think that – that Vaughn's dead."

Sydney was convinced that Vaughn was alive – but, she suspected, no longer Vaughn. Kendall's words about the torturous brainwashing she'd undergone in the Covenant's hands had never left her; they only echoed louder, now that she believed Vaughn had fallen prey to the fate she had so narrowly avoided.

If I ever saw him again, she thought, he wouldn't know me. Probably he'd be programmed to hurt me. He didn't have Project Christmas to –

She stopped herself before she came to the word "protect."

"I think Vaughn's gone." That was all she could say.

Eric picked up his cards again, but he seemed to be blinking a little too fast. He lost his best friend, she thought. He's tried to hard to be there for me – I hope I've been there for him.

Before she could voice the thought, Eric said, "Okay, show 'em. I'm not playing dealer all night."

Sydney held up her kings. Eric had a flush of hearts. She found that she was smiling. "You didn't show any of your tells."

"You don't know anything about my tells, baby. Now, I think it's been a long time since we watched 'Suspicion.' Like, three days or something."

"Way too long," Sydney agreed, scooping up the cards.

**

After Cary Grant's vindication, Eric went for his three minutes in the shower, and Sydney meandered toward the kitchen. She was already eagerly awaiting the next shipment of freshies – the Antarctic slang was natural now – but for the time being, canned pears would do.

The office door was cracked open, and light shone from inside. Her father was at work.

Sydney's first impulse was to tiptoe past the door. But she hesitated, then stopped in the hallway. He had been there for her when Dixon died, and he always got her bananas, and –

Yes, everything between them, everything in her life history, was seriously screwed up. But maybe her father wasn't the one who'd done that. Maybe it all got started a long time before any of them were born.

Taking a deep breath, she rapped on the door. "Hey – are you busy?"

"Sydney? No, no." Her father's tone of voice – well, it sounded like he was busy. When she walked into the office, she saw him sitting in front of the computer; it had been shut off, but he was still staring at the dark monitor screen. Finally he half-turned toward her. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. Is anything wrong?"

"Everything is under control." Every word was crisp and stern, just like it had been the day he assured her there was a Santa Claus. "When did Dr. Lo last examine you?"

"I saw Jenny three days ago. Why?"

His face was blank. "Has she said anything further about running tests?"

Sydney stared down at him, feeling her stomach clench within her. "No, she hasn't." One of her hands crept across her belly, instinctively. "I'm sure you'll take the next opportunity to remind her."

"Don't misinterpret this," her father said, as though there was any misinterpreting his desire to run medical tests on her unborn child. "You've seen the newspapers. You know what's going on in the rest of the world."

"I know we need a cure. And I know we need this baby for a cure. So why do you want to endanger –"

"I never said that." He breathed out, not quite a sigh. "Some people who were supposed to be immune to this disease because of their bloodlines are getting sick anyway."

"Members of the Covenant? Excuse me while I get my violin."

"Sydney, this is serious."

"We're talking about my child's life, and you think I don't know that's serious?" She stalked away from him, but before she could reach the door she felt his hand clamp around her forearm. Sydney stopped walking, but she refused to turn and face her father.

"We can't hide here forever," he said. "Eventually, when the global situation becomes dire enough, our supply lines will dry up. Not in a month, maybe not even in a year, but inevitably. When the time comes for us to leave Antarctica, we have to have the cure. Otherwise, none of us is safe. Not me, not you, not your child."

"I told you – I already know we need a cure." She pulled away from him and escaped into the darkness of the hallway. For a moment she thought he might follow her, but he didn't.

Blinded by tears, sick with both the coldness of her father and the danger to her child, Sydney made her way almost to her room, then changed her mind. Instead, she thumped on Eric's door.

"Hang on, man in a robe." When Eric opened the door, he was still adjusting the waistband of his sweatpants beneath his striped bathrobe. At the sight of her face, he froze, stricken. "Syd? You okay?"

She flung her arms around his neck and hugged him as tightly as she could. After a moment, he hugged her back, rocking her slowly as she wept on his shoulder.

Once her sobs had quieted, he whispered, "You want to tell me what that was about?" His hand felt so comforting, stroking her hair.

Sydney shook her head and simply held him. His embrace felt so comforting, so right – there were times when she thought anyplace in the world (even Antarctica) would feel like home, as long as Eric was there.

As she breathed in the warm scent of him, she wished she could hide with Eric forever.

**

III.

 

They were only nightmares.

That was what Nadia had told herself ever since she was a little girl: The visions of the sick and dying – hundreds upon thousands of them – had haunted her all her life, or at least since the first time the Rambaldi serum had been injected into her veins. Why shouldn't a child have nightmares of sick people, after being tied to a chair and tortured by doctors? Never had she suspected that those visions might portend something more, not until Michael had told her about the Rain of Gold.

"What will it do?" she had asked her father, almost eight months before. "My genetic code – what will it reveal?"

"Eternity," he had said, and she had not asked herself what that truly meant. Nadia had spent so very long waiting for her father, and she did not want to turn him away now that he had finally arrived.

But the dreams that had haunted her entire life were not dreams of eternity – they were dreams of destruction and creation, of dissolution and unity. They were dreams of duality, of two things becoming one. No, what Michael had told her did not explain those dreams entirely. But they came far closer than her father's gauze-softened vagaries of a better tomorrow.

Could she doubt what Michael had told her? She had come to trust him, at least as much as she trusted Papa, and perhaps more –

Clenching her eyes shut, Nadia hugged her pillow tighter and tried to stop thinking about it. But she couldn't; for three weeks now, she had been waiting for Michael to press her further, so she could angrily denounce him, make him admit that his time here had made him paranoid. Instead, Michael had said nothing, trapping her alone with her thoughts. No doubt he had realized just how effective that would be.

Just as her father would have realized how susceptible his daughter would be to a fairy-tale house near the shore, with sunsets and wine and long walks as the only tasks of the day.

Nadia hated the knowledge that she was being manipulated almost as much as she hated the fact that she was such a good candidate for manipulation. If it hadn't been Michael or her father – or both of them – somebody else would have come along, promising to spin straw into gold, and she would have believed.

If you wait for the angel long enough, she thought, you begin to see him everywhere. Michael never asked for that role; don't blame him because you put him there.

Her father, on the other hand – he wanted her to believe in him so badly –

With a toss of the covers, Nadia was on her feet. She slipped into dark clothes without turning on the light, her movements rapid and jerky with anger.

My father wants my love because he's my father, she thought. He doesn't need lies to do that, and if he keeps secrets, it's for a reason. Michael will never believe that unless I prove it. To prove it, I have to face my own doubts.

Quietly Nadia padded downstairs, went onto the deck and dropped down. She was only mildly surprised to see Michael's profile silhouetted by the glow of the computer screen. Instantly he whirled around, sensing movement; when their eyes met through the split in the curtains, he froze.

Neither of them spoke. They would not be able to; her father slept nearby.

Michael pulled back the curtains and stepped away. Calling upon her gymnastics training, Nadia braced her hands on the sill, slowly eased most of her torso through the window, then rolled her legs through to land with a soft thump on the floor. She froze, but it hadn't been loud enough to alert Papa. When she glanced upward, Michael was staring down at her, obviously impressed. If she had not had greater concerns on her mind, that might have pleased her more, she thought.

He motioned to the chair, surrendering the computer to her. Even before she sat down, Nadia could tell that the image open was a scan of a Rambaldi document.

She began reading. It occurred to her that she should have had more trouble with it – some of it was in mirror-writing, some of it in code – but her instinctive knowledge of Rambaldi's plans, given to her by the serum, did the work for her, so much so that she could not distinguish it from her own mind.

Every word of it supported Michael's story about the Rain of Gold. Every word of it was reflected in the nightmares that had haunted her since she was a child.

Fingers trembling, Nadia continued paging through the document. She reached an illustration of a bundle of flowers, then recognized the DNA code entwined around them –

Her DNA.

("My genetic code – what will it reveal?"

"Eternity.")

She was the one who had created this disease. No – her father had used her to create it.

Tears rolled down her cheeks, but she did not wipe them away. Instead, she sat motionless, staring at the screen, sick at heart.

Michael's hand rested on her shoulder, so lightly it almost wasn't a touch at all.

Nadia shrugged his hand away and rose to her feet. When their eyes met, she could see his pity. Knowing that she deserved it was the worst of all.

Before he could try to prevent her, Nadia made her way back out the window, up onto the deck, and back to her room – the little tower by the sea in her father's fairy-tale house. Her control was good enough to keep her from sobbing out loud until she was already tucked back in under the covers, safe and sound.

**

IV.

 

"Sector Eight looks normal," Eric said, the words echoing slightly within his face mask. Beyond his ice-crusted goggles he could see "normal" – mile after mile of snow and ice, white on blue on white, unmarked by any sign of human contact except for the fresh tracks of his own Alpine snowmobile.

"Confirmed." Was Jack Bristow's voice less affected by the static than anybody else's? Or did the man always sound like he was talking through a speaker? "Complete the perimeter scan and head back to base."

They were almost an hour out from Mountaineer Station, slightly past the Jamesway huts Jack had set up around the perimeter to serve as emergency shelters; if a patrol went wrong, or there were an attack on the main station, any one of the Jamesways could save their lives. Eric was slightly creeped out by Jack's certainty that somebody was looking for them – it seemed like paranoia, even by Bristow standards. Who the hell was going to crawl out on the Antarctic ice field to find Sydney?

He thought about that again, about Sydney, pregnant and vulnerable, sheltered in the station behind them -- Eric breathed in the sweat-stale air beneath his face mask, then resumed the perimeter search. Any risk of somebody finding Sydney was too much. He could try a little Bristow-style paranoia for a while.

Also, when Eric thought about Sydney and felt his heart turn over like that, he knew another hour of freezing cold would do him good. Sober him up.

As the Alpine buzzed across the snow, retracing the sector perimeter, Eric forced himself to focus on the more immediate hazards surrounding him. Even though he was becoming familiar with this terrain, traveling across it remained risky. Patches of bald ice amid the snow could cause the snowmobile to tip over; the winds, always gusty, had picked up considerably in the last couple of days, which both made steering more difficult and visibility tricky. And the item right at the top of the list of Things Eric Weiss Doesn't Want To Do In Antarctica was "fall into a crevasse." If the long tumble into a mile-deep gash in the ice didn't kill him, he would either freeze to death in meltwater or just starve while waiting for a rescue that was pretty much impossible.

None of it was good. All of it was conducive to concentrating very hard on where you were going. Eric studied the terrain in front of him, white on white on white on red on white on –

The hell?

Braking the snowmobile to a stop, Eric peered through his goggles, trying to recapture the small flash of red that he'd seen – or not seen – a couple seconds earlier. Nothing. Maybe he'd imagined it?

Then it blinked again – a small dot of red light.

"Retriever to Watchtower," Eric said quickly. "I've detected an electronic device near the outer perimeter of Sector Eight. Moving to intercept."

"Coming to your location now, Retriever."

Eric left his snowmobile and walked over to the blinking red light. It was attached to a steel spike that had been driven deep into the snow; normally, a locator beacon would be posted where it could be seen. Whoever had left this here had buried this so only its radio signal, still functioning beneath the snow, would be of use. If the stronger winds the last couple of days hadn't unearthed the signal, Eric would never have found it.

And none of them would have known that they'd been found.

Carefully, Eric removed his bulky outer gloves; his hands stung from exposure to the cold once he only had thin wool between him and the elements, but he needed some dexterity now. Looked like a standard narrow-band radio transmitter, American manufacture. Disconnecting it would be easy, a matter of pulling out three wires. But would that serve as a sign to whoever the hell it was that the transmitter had been found?

A snowmobile's growl made Eric turn quickly – but it was Jack Bristow, recognizable through layers of padding and swirls of snow just by his rigid posture. Eric remained still, holding the beacon, until Jack was at his side. After only a moment's hesitation, Jack said, "Cut the signal. They may think it's only environmental damage."

Eric tugged out the wires, and the red light stopped blinking. They would be a little harder to find, when whoever it was returned.

But they would return, and soon.

**

Upon reaching Mountaineer Station, Jack ordered constant patrols, giving no reason why. As the next shift set out, Eric stripped off his cold-weather gear and tried to think of how to break this to Sydney.

"You're not to disclose any of this to my daughter," Jack said, doing his creepy mind-reading thing again.

Eric stared at him; Jack was still layered in the silvery-gray insulating gear, goggles loose around his neck, apparently planning on going right back on the ice despite having spent three hard hours out there already. "Syd deserves to know," Eric replied.

"The information can only agitate her."

"Sydney won't panic." Eric was as sure of this as he was of anything. "She doesn't panic. Hell, she's more likely to jump on a snowmobile herself to search the perimeter than she is to –"

Jack just stood there, one eyebrow raised.

"I gotcha." Eric didn't like keeping secrets from Sydney, even if it was for her own good, but he saw Jack's point on this one. So, he was on distraction duty. "Listen, I'd like computer clearance for today. There's some information I wanted to pull for Sydney."

"About what?"

The guy was so suspicious – but, thirty minutes after he'd held a radio beacon in his hand, Eric wasn't going to call even Jack Bristow overcautious. "Nothing sensitive. She was saying that she wished she had a baby-names book. I don't think Barnes &amp; Noble has a South Pole store, so I thought I'd print a couple of lists off, you know?"

"Oh." Jack blinked a couple of times. "Names. Yes. That would be – that's acceptable."

Eric tried to read the expression on Jack's face, failed as usual, and hazarded a guess. "Hey, I don't think I ever actually said – you know, congratulations. On the whole grandfather thing."

"Thank you, Mr. Weiss." And even though Jack's words were clipped, and he pulled back on his goggles, Eric could tell that he was just a little bit pleased. But the reality of their position – discovered and exposed – settled on them both again, almost instantly. "Keep Sydney busy. Otherwise she'll notice the increased patrol levels."

"You got it."

**

"For a boy, Marcus Vaughn Bristow." Sydney settled herself back onto the pillows of his bed, her dark hair fanned out around her face. Her face was clean-scrubbed – nobody had packed any makeup for her – and her belly was now pronounced, and in Eric's opinion, she had never been more beautiful, which was saying something. "It's a girl's name I can't decide on, at all."

Eric tossed aside the pages with boys' names, making a show of it so that the paper fluttered in the air, and was rewarded with a giggle. "We begin our search for girl's names. Any conditions?"

"It should go well with Frances," Sydney said. "That's going to be the middle name."

"We can start alphabetically, then. Abigail?"

She shrugged, then laughed again. "If we work through the whole alphabet, we're still going to be talking two months after I give birth."

As long as it keeps you busy, Eric thought. "We can go ahead and knock a couple of names off the end. I mean, Zelda's out, right?"

"Very, very out. But I want to find a name that really means something. Not just something that sounds pretty."

"Yeah, I know what you mean. If I ever have a daughter – which involves me actually dating at some point, so, big if – I'd want to name her Sarah, for my aunt. Doesn't matter if Sarah's, like, out of style or goes badly with the hyphenated name my very-hypothetical wife came up with or what."

Sydney propped up on one elbow. "Your aunt? Is this the one you told me about – the one who would go on the waterslide with you?"

"Despite the fact that she was 60 years old and weighed 200 pounds? That's her. I can see that flowered swim cap coming downstream even now." They both laughed, but Eric felt other memories tugging at him too. "She was all about finding the joy in life, you know? She'd been through stuff you and I can't even imagine." Other kids at the waterslide had stared at the tattooed numbers on her arm, when they weren't staring at the flowered swim cap. "But she said there was no point in living through tragedy if you were just going to carry it around with you every day. Aunt Sarah always – always – looked on the bright side. The last time I saw her, she was dying in the hospital, and she looked like hell, and all she wanted to talk about was how gorgeous the flowers were on the tree outside her window. I never forgot that, how she could have death staring her in the face but only see the flowers."

Lost in his reverie, Eric was startled to feel Sydney's hand brush across his arm. "She sounds like an amazing person," Sydney said. "I think you're a lot like her."

She was looking into his eyes, and she thought he was amazing, and if he thought that was supposed to mean something he was CRAZY, and it was way past time to make a joke. "Should I pick out my flowered swim cap now?"

Sydney started laughing again, and it struck him all over again how dangerous all of this was for her – right this second, while somebody was searching for them, and she couldn't know. Quickly, he picked up the list and tried again. "All right. How about – Ada?"

**


	13. Chapter 13

V.

 

**Mexico City, Mexico**

 

Irina had chosen a gun.

Not for Bill Vaughn's murder, though that was the likeliest method, nor for Arvin Sloane's, which she sincerely hoped to conduct in a lengthy and detailed manner.

No, after they were both dead, she would finish the job she had begun in Brussels. Once more, she would put the muzzle of her gun beneath her chin. Then one swift pull of the trigger would blow her memories and her losses and her one unredeemable mistake through the top of her skull.

One mistake. From the age of seventeen until now, she had balanced a thousand different identities, layers of loyalties and betrayals, secrets and lies and truth – and she had really only made one mistake. Of course, she'd made a thousand errors: little things, running left when she ought to have dodged right, giving the Mumbai operation to Chiang instead of Katya, not seeing that third man in Bangkok. But those were mere details, all easily compensated for – or, at least, endured.

Irina had made just one true mistake in all those decades, and that one had defined her life (and her children's, and her husband's) from that time on. Sometimes she thought that seemed unjust. Sometimes she wondered if her destiny allowed for mistakes, and whether Rambaldi himself would have judged it a mistake at all.

For Sydney, she'd thought, gulping down a swallow of Jack's Scotch and trying not to see the look in Sloane's eyes as he slipped off his jacket. If there's a cure, then they won't have to hurt the Rain of Gold. They can let her grow up and be a little girl, as long as there's a cure. Sloane had kissed her, and she had somehow managed to convince him her response was real --

No more memories. No more witnessing the devastation she'd wrought. No more loss. All she had to do was see Sloane dead, and then she could finally be done with regrets, and with everything else besides.

Sloane had seen through her attempt to seduce him in Warsaw – which she'd anticipated – and had quickly found the tracker she'd planted on him there, which she'd hoped he wouldn't. So tracking him had taken longer, and required Sark's help. The price of Sark's help appeared to be Michael Vaughn's life; Irina was willing to pay that if nothing else would answer, but she still hoped to hold Sark off for Sydney's sake when the time came.

She would never know for certain.

A rap on the door of her hotel room startled her; why would any of the guards disturb her at this hour? Then she heard Sark's voice: "Don't be alarmed. I have news."

Irina got her gun anyway.

When she opened the door, Sark hesitated before stepping inside. He looked exhausted himself; as inexplicable as his grief for Lauren Reed was to her, it appeared to be genuine. "I regret to be the one to inform you of this," he began.

"Has Sloane left?"

"No, we've no news that would disrupt our plans. It's about your sister Yekaterina. I fear we received word that she passed away a week ago, in Australia." Australia was suffering through a wave of the Rain of Gold plague – if her death had been a murder, Sark would have said so. No, Katya had died of the disease, unprotected by her genes. She could see the confirmation in Sark's eyes.

Katya. Irina had thought she was beyond the reach of any other pain, and she had been wrong. She remembered being a tiny girl, pushed on a swing by the big sister willing to steer her all the way up to the sky. Even Katya was lost to her now. All because of the Rain of Gold – all because of her one mistake.

"Leave me," Irina said, and Sark obeyed her immediately. For the rest of the night, she lay curled on her bed, not sleeping, not meditating, just thinking of her sister – the first ally she'd ever known in her life, and the last one Irina had pushed away.

("That's it, then?" Katya had challenged her, standing on the other side of a map of Italy. They had stood on the far edges of two seas. "Giving into despair already?"

"You don't understand." Irina had not let her understand. She had never revealed the full truth about her daughters' destinies, not even to Katya, always thinking that she would have time – that she would solve the one final mystery herself, then tell them all: Sydney, Katya, Jack, everyone. "Sloane has Nadia. They've found the Sphere of Life. Our search is over."

"Over!" Katya had looked as though she might laugh, or cry, or perhaps both. "Never did I think to hear you say that word, Irina."

"Then you haven't been listening." Irina had turned on her heel and left. She would have spoken more kindly, if she'd known they would never meet again.)

I owed Katya better than that, she thought. She was – difficult, and strange, but she helped me when nobody else did. Did I blame her for our mutual failure to find Nadia? I owed her more.

At dawn, Irina rose and went to the lobby of the hotel without her guards, no longer caring about the slight risk. "The London Times," she demanded of the clerk. "Friday's edition. If you don't have a copy, find one."

Some scurrying behind the counter resulted. Irina thought it unlikely that her sister would have availed herself of a signal they'd pre-arranged decades before. When Irina had cut off all contact, probably Katya had believed that this, too, would go unheeded. But if her sister had tried – had believed in Irina's willingness to listen, despite the months of silence between them – then Irina wanted to hear.

At last the clerk held out a wrinkled copy, which Irina snatched away, offering no thanks. In the elevator she began paging through – and saw the ad they'd designed years before, the strange nonsense text that begged for decoding. Irina's heartbeat quickened, glad or frightened of Katya's last words.

But an hour's decoding work revealed no words – only numbers. It took Irina a full minute to recognize them as coordinates, so unusual were they.

Why had Katya wanted her to travel there? What waited? What possible piece of information could make a difference now? Knowing Katya, it might have been anything – or nothing, really, but a dare. Irina could envision her sister's merry eyes, relishing this last game. Katya was trying to get Irina to admit that there was still something worth being curious about – something still worth fighting for.

Could it be more important than watching Arvin Sloane die?

When her mind was made up, she went to Sark's door and pounded. When he opened the door, he appeared as crisp and alert as though he never had to sleep at all. "Is there trouble?"

"No. But you'll be conducting the operation without me."

For one of the first times in her memory, Sark's face betrayed his surprise. "I thought our mission was of paramount importance to you."

"It is. I simply trust you to take care of Arvin Sloane on your own." Trust was not a word she often applied to Julian Sark, but in this, she felt confident. She had trained Sark, taught him so much of what he knew; sending Sark on his own was almost as good as being there herself. He was a sword she herself had forged. "Don't disappoint me."

"I won't. May I ask where you're going instead?"

"No." Irina hesitated, then added, "We won't meet again."

Sark did not fall back on any trite farewells; she'd known he would not and was grateful for it. "I'll leave word through our usual channels when Sloane's dead."

"I hope to see it," she said. That was their only goodbye.

It occurred to her as she walked out of the hotel that her abandonment of the mission to follow Katya's cryptic intel was, in essence, insurance that Michael Vaughn would die. Irina regretted that, but not enough to turn back.

**

VI.

 

Within another two months, perhaps three, they would be able to leave this house. Relishing the early-morning sunlight on the water, Sloane wished they never had to leave at all. He'd known this would be a glorious time in both their lives, and had watched Nadia blossom into radiant happiness with a gardener's satisfaction in a prize orchid.

But their idyll here was just that – a respite from the long work ahead. The times after the Rain of Gold would be hard; that, too, was part of the price he would pay for immortality. Power would have to be consolidated. Economies would have to be reconstructed. Strong hands would be needed at the reins, and Sloane knew he was one of the very few people who would have the resources and the ability to offer.

If you undertake to create a new world, Sloane thought, you must undertake to create a better one. That was the gift he could give to Nadia and to so many others. It would take time – but he would have forever.

"Good morning, Papa." Sloane turned, smiling, to see Nadia standing in the doorway with a breakfast tray. "I thought we could eat on the deck – it's such a beautiful day."

"That's a wonderful idea. I should have thought of that before. We've wasted too many mornings." And it was all too true – but for Irina's doubts, he might have enjoyed twenty-five years of fatherhood. But there was no point in carrying regrets through to eternity – and eternity was how long he and Nadia would have to make up for lost time. In the end, a quarter-century was a small price to pay.

Nadia poured his coffee and buttered his toast, reminding him of other mornings, other people. "Emily loved dining al fresco," Sloane said, thinking of the broad table on the deck of their home in Los Angeles. "She loved being surrounded by her flowers and fresh air, or being within the sound of the sea. I wish you could have known her, Nadia."

"She sounds like a wonderful person," Nadia said. But then, hesitantly, she added, "Hearing about her – it makes me wonder – how it was I came to be born."

Sloane closed his eyes. He'd never imagined that Nadia's knowledge of his infidelity could wound him so deeply. "I was weak. Your mother was – is – a powerfully seductive woman, Nadia. She was an agent for the KGB, and manipulation was part of her job. I don't blame her for that, not any longer; Irina Derevko was doing her duty as she saw it. But it was many years before I had enough perspective to see that. Jack Bristow never could – though I don't blame him for that, either."

Nadia's face was turned toward the sea; her profile was classical in its beauty, if too reminiscent of Irina's. No doubt discussing the mother she'd never known was difficult for her. If only he and Emily could have raised her together. Emily would have accepted her, given time and love, and she would have been the best mother a girl could've had.

"She wanted secrets from you?" Nadia said. "That's why the affair happened?"

"It was reason enough, for her."

"But – if she was married to Sydney's father – you can take precautions." Her cheeks were pink, probably from the embarrassment of talking about something so intimate with her father. "Her marriage was her cover as a spy. Wouldn't she have tried to guard against another pregnancy?"

This bordered too closely on a conversation that Nadia was not ready to have yet. Someday, Sloane could explain to her the singular power of her destiny. When he could show her the newer, better world she had helped create, then Nadia would be ready to hear it. And when her love for him was not so new and fragile, she would understand that she had been born for that destiny and from his desire for a daughter – that the two needs could be one single emotion. "She had mentioned that Jack was unwilling to have a second child," he said, telling the truth as far as it went. "They were experiencing trouble in their marriage at the time. I couldn't begin to guess what she planned to tell him if she became pregnant. Certainly she never gave me the first hint of her condition before her escape. Maybe her time of departure was scheduled all along."

"She seems to have been a very manipulative woman."

"She is. But that's not all she is." Sloane studied his daughter's face, troubled by the misery he saw there. "Someday, maybe, years from now, you'll meet her. You can judge for yourself then."

Nadia sipped her coffee. "Do you think she gave birth to me just because of Rambaldi? Just to reach him and – and find the Sphere of Life?"

"It wouldn't be the worst crime if she had. Rambaldi's knowledge transcends anything else humanity has ever known." Sloane covered Nadia's hand with his own. "But I don't think she's ever understood Rambaldi's true importance. Not the way you and I do."

They were quiet together for a while, and Sloane wished he could introduce some other topic – anything – that would bring their breakfast back to the pleasant meal he'd hoped for. But Nadia would need to lead the way.

At last, she said, "I know that talking with me about this is difficult for you. But – Papa – if you ever want to talk about – hard subjects -- I'll hear you out. I won't judge you, not until I know the whole story. Not ever. All you have to do is talk to me. All right?"

Sloane smiled, surprised at the lump in his throat. "I understand. And I appreciate that, Nadia. More than you know."

He continued with his breakfast, glad the awkwardness was past them. After a few moments, her curiosity apparently satisfied, Nadia began talking about the horses, her pleasure in riding them. It was delightful, how easy it was to make her happy.

**

VII.

 

Jack continued the around-the-clock patrols, even though, in the third day, the guards were all exhausted and irritable. This troubled him not at all. Thus far, Sydney seemed oblivious to what was going on, though he'd noticed she'd stayed largely out of sight the day before. Any deviation from normal procedure was suspect. But if she knew anything she would confront him, angry and bewildered, and wouldn't listen to any explanation, which was why Jack did not intend to offer one in the first place.

Then he put his anger aside. His improved relationship with Sydney had been a temporary phenomenon – he'd always known that, and if he'd let himself forget it for a time, that was his own misfortune. There was no point in blaming Sydney for the destruction of his foolish hopes.

It was better to concentrate on more immediate, more real concerns.

As he steered his Alpine out toward the perimeter, he continued scanning across radio frequencies, trying to pick up on any hint of a signal. Jack was still angry that the first beacon's wavelengths had been cloaked from them; whoever it was coming after them had the best equipment. If they found this base to begin with, they had ability. He might even respect them for those skills, once they were safely dead.

"Retriever to Watchtower." Weiss' words crackled through the speaker. "Winds are picking up. We've got confirmation of a full-on Katabatic storm in the works, and we've got about another hour before we get ourselves pounded by some serious ice."

Jack disliked the idea of running back to Mountaineer Station to hide from the weather. However, a Katabatic storm – capable of generating winds of more than 200 miles per hour, and temperatures at severely dangerous levels of cold – was too threatening to risk. And their would-be attackers couldn't move in that kind of storm any more than they could.

But even as he opened his mouth to order everyone back inside, an electronic chirp made him freeze.

"Motion detected within 200 yards of my location," Jack said. "Converge at this point. Weapons ready."

"Watchtower – this storm – if they're out here, they'll freeze."

The motion detector continued chirping; this wasn't a false alarm, created by snowdrifts. "Exactly. They'll have to get to shelter. The only shelter available is ours."

Though it was possible the attack force would simply go to one of the Jamesway huts, it was more likely that they'd assault Mountaineer Station itself – and thereby put Sydney in immediate danger. Apparently Weiss understood instantly. "Headed to your location now. Weapons ready."

Sydney's safe, Jack said to himself as he took up his assault rifle. They haven't reached her, and they won't.

Now the motion detector was chirping faster. Jack squinted, trying to focus through the swirling snow; it wasn't snowing – it was far too cold for that – but the whipping wind was stirring up the snow already on the ground. Visibility was poor. By the time the attackers were visible, they'd almost be on top of his location.

He heard the low sound of Alpine motors and tensed – but then he realized the snowmobiles were behind him. On cue, Weiss said, "We've got your back. Almost there."

Jack shouldered the rifle and considered ordering radio silence. But it didn't matter; if the approaching party – five to seven separate figures, from the look of it – didn't already know their approach had been detected, they would soon. With visibility this poor, radio was their only way of working together.

Seven separate figures, within 50 yards.

Sydney's safe and warm, back at the shelter, Jack thought. His heartbeat remained slow and steady; his grip remained firm. They'll never reach her. Maybe she'll never have to know.

Within 25 yards. Motion at the right of his field of vision proved to be one of his own team – Weiss, he thought, though he couldn't be sure. Jack watched the area before them, but the blowing snow was too thick, the wind too volatile. Finally, he studied the motion detector, made his own calculations – 15 degrees right – and fired blind.

As his weapon blasted out, a small blossom of red appeared amid the storm. One down.

Immediately his Alpine shuddered, the sharp metallic thunks of bullets striking the motor. "We're on them!" Weiss yelled, and everyone was firing, moving forward, getting closer. This was suicidal, but Jack didn't care as long as it was effective. Sydney was safe, and that was all that mattered.

Jack saw the snowmobile in front of him in time to stop, but instead he gunned the motor. The driver wheeled around, just avoiding the collision; their faces passed within a few feet of each other, and Jack felt no shock upon recognizing Thomas Brill's eyes. Brill was one of the very few people who could have tracked him here.

"I'm on the leader," he said, leaning into the Alpine's sharp curve as he turned. "Hold them off."

"Three down, Watchtower." Weiss sounded steady. Good. "We've got –"

Weiss' voice changed from words to a shout that could only be pain. Then his signal went dead, and Jack swore under his breath. No time to wonder what had happened to him. He had to keep Brill within his sight. Brill was accelerating forward – toward the shelter, and toward Sydney.

Jack fired at Brill's back, but the man was swerving defensively, making himself hard to hit. Steering with one hand in soft, fast-accumulating snow was difficult, too. When Brill veered strongly to the left – no longer moving toward the shelter – it was tempting to let him go and challenge him later. There was every chance the storm would take care of Brill for good. But any chance that the man would return, better manned and armed, was too high.

As they began moving uphill, Jack fired once more; Brill jerked his snowmobile around quickly, almost tipping over. Had he hit the man's shoulder? Was it –

Then he saw what Brill had swerved to avoid – a crevasse, wide and deep and if he could just turn –

The Alpine was moving too fast. It braked at the very edge, slipped in the loose powder and tumbled over. Jack tried to leap free, but his body slammed into the other side of the crevasse, ice hard against his ribs, before he tumbled downward into the gap.

WHAM! Pain crushed upward from his left leg, and Jack's feet were slipping from beneath him, but he managed to steady himself, bracing his hands on either side of the ice. The only light he had was the Alpine's headlight, suddenly brilliant in the darkness. In horror, Jack realized that he'd landed on the snowmobile itself, still running, vibrating beneath his feet and sending shock waves up through his injured left ankle. The snowmobile was wedged precariously in a narrow area of the crevasse – on either side, the drop was so deep that Jack couldn't see the bottom. And the heat from the snowmobile's motor was already beginning to melt the ice, water droplets forming on its surface.

Snow was blown into the crevasse; once shielded from the Katabatic winds, it fell still and soft, almost peaceful.

Jack felt for his assault rifle; the strap was still slung around his forearm. The surface was only a foot above his head. He'd be able to reach up and get a decent hold, if there was one to be found –

He heard a snowmobile's motor over the howling of the winds – very close. Almost at the edge. And Jack knew none of his own party could have reached him so quickly.

One, two, the assault rifle was in his hands and his foot hurt and he ignored it, firing upward at the first glimpse of motion. Blood splattered down on him like rain, freezing almost as soon as it landed on his face mask. Now blinded, Jack hesitated for a moment; if a body fell on top of him or the snowmobile, he'd be dead.

Nothing fell. Jack edged toward the side again, ignoring the pain in his left ankle, which was either severely sprained or broken. His body was beginning to shake, either from cold exposure, shock, injury or some combination of all of the above. And the snowmobile's surface was slippery already.

He felt the edges of the ice, reached past them and tried to get a handhold. Jack pulled himself up – lost traction, and slipped back down. The Alpine shuddered beneath his feet, but slid no further. Again – another grip, another pull, another fall. This time he didn't shield the weight from his left foot well enough, and the pain was so intense that his vision dimmed for a moment.

Not that he could see anything but frozen blood anyway.

The snowmobile slipped then – just a couple of inches, but that was enough to tell Jack that his time to escape was becoming short. Best to jump for it with all his remaining strength. Either he'd make it this time, or he wouldn't make it at all.

Jack jumped. This time, his hands found purchase, and he was able to slowly pull himself over the edge, muscles quivering in protest. He fell atop Brill's dead body, hearing the slow screech of the Alpine's metal against ice as it began slowly skidding into the abyss.

Get up, Jack commanded himself. Find Brill's snowmobile.

His left foot made walking out of the question, but Jack crawled through the snow, trying to see any sign of the snowmobile. It had to be close – he'd heard it – but visibility was now all but zero. He'd only seen Brill because their bodies were in actual contact; the snowmobile, a few feet away, was effectively invisible. The blood-crusted face mask didn't help.

Holding one arm out in front of him, Jack felt for it, finding nothing, then nothing again. He made a circle, shaking harder all the while, until he shuffled back into Brill's corpse.

Had the rest of the team survived? With four members of Brill's seven man team confirmed dead, Jack felt confident that they'd won the fight. Sydney's safe, he told himself. That's all that matters.

Exhausted and dazed, Jack sank down onto the snow. On one level, he knew that his mind's functioning was already confused from injury and cold – that his complacency was a clinical sign, and a dangerous one.

On another level – the only one that seemed to matter – Jack could think of nothing besides the fact that his single goal had been achieved.

Sydney's safe, he thought again, as he lay there, snow beginning to accumulate atop him. Sydney's safe.

**


	14. Chapter 14

_You know who I am,   
You've stared at the sun,   
Well, I am the one who loves   
Changing from nothing to one. _

Sometimes I need you naked,   
Sometimes I need you wild,   
I need you to carry my children in   
And I need you to kill a child.

If you should ever track me down   
I will surrender there   
And I will leave with you one broken man   
Whom I will teach you to repair.

I cannot follow you, my love,   
You cannot follow me.   
I am the distance you put between   
All of the moments that we will be.

\--"You Know Who I Am," Leonard Cohen

 

IRENICON: Book Seven

 

I.

 

**Rio de Janeiro, Brazil**

 

"In order to really understand the repercussions of Rambaldi's work – to know the full truth of what we've done here – you have to understand the Green Lantern."

McKenas Cole stopped pacing long enough to make sure his audience – namely Toni Cummings, late of the Covenant's employ in security services and, from the look of things, soon to be the late Toni Cummings, period – was still with him. Toni's bloodshot eyes were glazed, but they were still focused. "What – the hell -- are you talking about – Cole?"

He started pacing again, walking the length of the tastefully appointed bedroom, paying as little attention as possible to the listener in the enormous four-poster next to him. "The Green Lantern. Superhero. Justice League of America -- once with the New Titans but, sadly, no more. By that last clue you will have discerned that I refer to Kyle Rayner, most recent of the heroes to carry the famed Green Lantern ring. The average layman, when he – or she, don't want to be sexist, because lots of chicks dig the comic books these days – the average layperson would, upon hearing the words 'Green Lantern,' instantly think of Hal Jordan. Hal was the first Green Lantern. Some would say the best. But not me, Toni. I'm a Kyle man. And I'm about to tell you why."

"I don't give a good goddamn about your comic-book collection." Toni's breath was heavy in her throat; the gal had about a day until she bought it, in Cole's opinion. He was getting good at figuring out just how the Rain of Gold progressed. Maybe, before it was all over, he could time it down to the hour, or even the minute. How cool would that be?

"One man's adolescent fantasy is another's parable, Toni. In this crazy, mixed-up world of ours, we have to take meaning where we can find it. I myself find it in the story of Kyle Rayner. Kyle was just a guy doing his job, you know? Minding his own business. He didn't go looking for a Green Lantern ring; the Guardians didn't pick him out. Destiny found him. I can relate to that."

Toni managed to sit up in her bed. Obviously she was using her anger like fuel, like gasoline, which Cole could respect, kind of. "You came here – for something – and it wasn't to talk about the fuckin' Justice League. Spit it out. Get this – over with."

"Word on the street has it you did a job that my associates and I find all kinds of interesting. The rumor, the scoop, the skinny if you will, is that you fixed up the security systems for Bomani's main laboratory." He glanced out of the window, curious about the view down the hillside. The poorer neighborhoods had rampant disease and near-constant rioting; even Rio's hoi polloi were finding themselves vulnerable. Outside in the valley beneath them, as the sun set, Cole could see fires burning unheeded in the slums. Rio was one of the first major cities to fall into this level of chaos, though of course it wouldn't be the last. Too bad he hadn't brought his iPod with him; a little Tower of Power would set this scene real nice. Horn section, '70s mellow soul – perfect. "I'd be real interested in knowing where that lab is. So would a lot of other people, less considerate, less stylish, and much more likely to be pains in the ass. You give me that info, Toni, I'll make it worth your while."

She laughed in his face. Rude, rude, rude. "I'm dying, Cole. What do you think – my while is worth?"

"Don't get me wrong, baby. I know the Rain of Gold sucks. But I'm pretty sure there are some kinds of slow deaths that suck worse – and we can figure those out together." He studied his fingernails. "I could show you a special little something I introduced to our mutual friend. And talking about Arvin Sloane brings me back – fittingly enough – to Hal Jordan."

"Shit."

"Hal JORDAN," Cole said, drowning out the dying woman's swearing, "was the first Green Lantern that comic readers got to know. The grand old man of the title, you'd say. A great hero with a powerful legacy, but you know what happens to some men as they age, doncha? Their minds start to go, and they get just a little bit crazy. We have now reached the Arvin Sloane portion of the program. I thought I'd point that out, in case you lose the ability to relate to metaphors near the end."

By now, Toni was just staring at him. Cole liked a captive audience.

"Did Hal Jordan die a hero, you may ask? It's a natural assumption. But that's not what happened. The guy went insane, and he killed every other Green Lantern in the entire universe. All but one of the Guardians, too. Fuckin' tragedy. Everyone finally knew Hal Jordan was a head case, but they accepted it just a little too late. I bet this story's sounding familiar now, isn't it? Anyway, after Hal was totally, completely beyond the pale, Kyle Rayner got the very last Green Lantern ring. He was the young guy, the upstart, the one nobody expected to finish on top. But that's exactly where Kyle is these days. He's the one and only Green Lantern. Ain't nothing ever gonna tear him down."

"You forgot – one thing –" Toni panted.

Cole turned, confused. "What?"

"Yellow." The gun seemed to appear from beneath Toni's pillow in an instant; the gunshot seemed to arrive after the pain that slammed into Cole's chest. He fell on his ass, then on his back. As he stared at the ceiling, gasping for breath, he heard Toni say, "All – Green Lanterns – are vulnerable – to yellow."

Everything hurt. His chest was too heavy. He was dying, fucking DYING, about four months before he could have expected to live forever. Cole couldn't stand, couldn't yell, couldn't do anything but choke out the words, "Not cool, babe."

Toni then said the last words Cole ever heard on planet Earth: "And – Guy Gardner – could kick – Kyle Rayner's ass."

**

II.

 

Vaughn awoke when Nadia sat on his bed.

He said nothing; neither did she, though she rested her hands on his chest. There were two obvious potential subjects of discussion, though Vaughn was pretty sure Nadia was here on business. He let her be the one to speak.

It took her a long time to say, "You told the truth, and my father -- Sloane lied."

"I wish I'd been wrong. I mean that."

"I know."

When he'd seen the two of them breakfasting together that morning, Vaughn had almost given up. Nadia was needy – that much was obvious – but he hadn't been able to believe she was that desperate for attention. He was glad his better instincts about her had been proved right. "You gave him a chance, didn't you? You offered him an opening to explain."

"Don't hate me for it."

"No – Nadia, no." Vaughn sat up so he could meet her eyes. "Sloane's your father. You wanted to believe in him. Anybody would."

"You never believed in Bill," she pointed out.

He weighed that for a few moments before answering. "I grew up with my mother. You didn't have that."

They sat together in silence for a while longer, Nadia's head bent forward, moonlight shining on the dark curtain of her hair, and Vaughn tried very hard not to pity her. But it was impossible not to feel for her, at least. Only then, as he watched her struggle for composure, did Vaughn realize how long it had been since anyone else's feelings were more important to him than his own.

At last she said, "Do you think he's released the virus yet?"

"No telling. I know that he – killed Sydney – to prevent the cure from ever being created. But I can't decide if that means he's started or he's still waiting for something. What, I can't guess."

"We'll only know when we leave this place," Nadia murmured.

Escape. When he'd first been brought here, Vaughn had been unable to think of anything else, but for months now it had seemed impossible. Did Nadia know something he didn't? Hope rushed into him like a drug, exhilarating and overwhelming, and he had to struggle against his own enthusiasm to think clearly. "If we get out of here, we can get in touch with the CIA. They'll know what Sloane's done and what he hasn't. And then they can extract us, get us to safety."

"Won't they arrest me?"

He stared at her. "You were in the safe house for your protection, Nadia. It wasn't a jail." Only after he'd said it did Vaughn realize that some people in the CIA might not agree, but it didn't matter. Dixon was in charge, and Dixon was a reasonable guy. He'd listen.

Nadia didn't seem to be convinced, but she rose from the bed; his T-shirt was still warm where she'd touched him. "You know how much time I spend in the kitchen."

"Yeah. Don't tell me chicken sandwiches come into this, too."

She actually smiled at that, so fleetingly Vaughn almost didn't see it. "The guards are used to eating what I give them for dinner. Tonight, their lamb stew was laced with a tranquilizer. They're asleep now. We have a few hours."

Vaughn was on his feet in an instant. Ignoring modesty, he stripped out of his nightclothes to change into jeans and a dark shirt. As soon as he'd tugged the shirt over his head, he said, "I don't guess you've managed to find out just how far from civilization we are."

"There's a town about 60 kilometers to the south. We shouldn't hug the coast – too easy – but I think we can start that way." He could feel her eyes on him as he tugged on his jeans, and Vaughn couldn't decide if he minded or not. "The horses can get us there in a day. I've got water ready. Money, I don't know –"

"I can get us money." Thank God for Jack Bristow's interference and his clandestine accounts. Vaughn could have fake IDs and a fortune in his hands within hours of reaching an internet connection. "Nadia – thanks."

"Don't thank me until we get away."

**

Within minutes they were on the horses – her on her gray gelding, him on the safe brown mare – and galloping to the south. Vaughn looked back to study the house in the moonlight once; he'd never been far enough away from it to really understand its shape. It glowed, white and unreal like a mirage, as they rode away.

Goodbye, Dad, he thought. He wondered if losing Dad would be easier this time, because he got to choose, because he finally knew what kind of a man his father actually was. But as he turned to see Nadia riding beside him, her tear-wet cheeks gleaming, he knew it wasn't any easier for either of them. The son of a bitch who was your father – at the end of the day, he was still your father.

He'd have said that to Sydney, if he'd had the chance. Only in this crowd could Jack Bristow ever win the "Father of the Year" trophy.

The sun rose over the desert, first pink and warming, but all too quickly becoming golden and hot. When they paused to let the horses rest, Vaughn cast a longing look at the water bottle – but followed Nadia's lead and poured it into a rock hollow for the horses. As the horses noisily lapped it up, he dabbed sweat from his forehead. "They probably know we're gone, by now."

"I'm sure they know. I'm sure Papa – Sloane is looking for us already." For the first time he saw how frightened she was. He remembered the part of her dossier that revealed she'd been captured on her very first mission; maybe putting so much of the responsibility for their escape on her shoulders was an error.

Vaughn re-assessed the situation, starting from scratch. They'd made good time, but they still weren't that far from the house. If his father and Sloane rose at their usual times, they should have known about the escape for about an hour now. Sloane didn't seem to have any air support at that location, but there were cars and Jeeps, all of which were faster than the horses, even on this terrain. So they weren't safe at all.

They hadn't been safe for a while.

"They didn't follow us," Vaughn said. "Why wouldn't they do that?"

Nadia stared at him, expression changing from bewilderment to fear to determination. "Either he has sources in the town, and is counting on catching us there –"

"—or this area is booby-trapped," Vaughn finished. "Or both."

"You could have left that last part out."

The two of them stared around them; Vaughn felt like a fool, glaring suspiciously at rocks and the occasional cactus. They'd been in soft sand up until a few minutes ago, when the terrain had become stonier. Stony ground allowed for different kinds of land defenses.

He dropped to his knees and studied the surface intently, beginning from their immediate proximity and moving out. Only his years of training let him see it – one rock at an odd angle, soil and roots tufted along one side, as though the rock had been in one position for a very long time before being recently turned.

"Step away from the horses," Vaughn ordered.

Nadia obeyed him instantly, even as she asked, "Why?"

"Maybe nothing." He picked up a flat, smooth stone nearby, gauged its weight and heft, and spun it toward the suspicious rock.

The explosion sent shards and sand flying in every direction; the horses reared up, whinnying, and Nadia ducked down to avoid their hooves. They ran back the way they'd come, leaving Vaughn and Nadia crouching in the dust.

Holding out her hand, Nadia said, "No – the horses –"

"They're no use to us. We can't get through a minefield on horseback."

"That's not what I meant." Vaughn realized her concern was for the horses, who were likely to blow themselves up on their way back to the house. It was a miracle it hadn't happened before. Her worry was annoying – he'd have known she was still a rookie from that alone – and yet understandable. They were the one thing Sloane had given her in that house that hadn't been a lie.

"Their chances are better going back than moving forward with us," he said gently.

She nodded, then slowly stood. Each of them couldn't seem to look up from the deadly ground around them.

"You're the experienced one," she said. "I suppose you've traveled over minefields hundreds of times."

"Twice."

"Good enough." Nadia breathed out, then managed to lift her chin and meet his eyes. "How do we do this?"

Vaughn reached out and took her hand. Her skin was slick with sweat, probably from both heat and fear. "There's no procedure I can teach you. We just – take it slow. And we look out for each other."

Her fingers tightened around his. "Then let's begin."

**

III.

 

As she entered the examination room, Sydney gave her obstetrician her now-traditional greeting: "Hello, Jell-O."

"Fuck you," Jenny said cheerily, giving the traditional response. "I've been wondering where you were. I told you the test results would be ready at 3 p.m., and you waited all the way until 1 to show up? I'm starting to think you don't care."

It was only a joke, but it struck a little too close to home. "I care about the amnio results. I should've taken the test before now."

"Hey. The right time is whenever you're ready." Jenny could only say that because she didn't really understand what was on the line. "And you haven't had any spotting? Any cramping?"

"No, I'm absolutely fine." Her belly was a bit sore from the needle, which had hurt more than she'd anticipated, but that was the only adverse effect. "How's the baby?"

"Peachy keen. I can't believe your dad dragged me to Antarctica to watch the single healthiest pregnancy in history. I did the full workup, like you requested. We can give the results to your father whenever you're ready."

"As soon as they get back from patrol," Sydney said. Her father would be surprised that she'd allowed the amniocentesis, and maybe he'd even be angry that she'd done it behind his back. If he even tried to yell at Jenny for keeping the secret, Sydney planned to let him have it. But – he'd been right about needing a cure, and soon. People were already dying, and she'd let her fears fence her in for too long. "I thought – I mean, I knew the baby would be all right. The kicking's been strong. Healthy."

"Great news! We'll see if you're still excited the first time a foot catches you in the bladder." Jenny studied her, a smile spreading across her face. "You're the first mom I've ever had who didn't either ask right away or forbid me from telling her right way."

"Telling me what?"

"The baby's sex, ya goof. You're one of the ones who doesn't want to know, aren't you?"

Sydney hadn't even considered the more mundane results of the amnio. She weighed the options for a moment, then smiled. It would be fun to tease Eric with the knowledge, at least for an hour or so. "Tell me."

"Congratulations – it's a girl." Jenny beamed along with Sydney, then stepped back. "You're not going to hug me or anything, are you?"

"Never. I swear." But she knew she'd make up for it with Eric as soon as they got back. "I always thought I'd know – just know, instinctively. But I never had any idea."

Nodding sagely, Jenny said, "All that instinct stuff is crap. I guess now we can start painting our beautiful domicile a bright shade of bubblegum?"

Sydney laughed as she imagined her dad's face – then decided that, if he could find somebody to airdrop the paint, he'd probably let her do it. A daughter, she thought. I'm going to have a daughter --

"Doctor Lo!" Someone was shouting in the main hall – no, they were moving this way, and fast, feet pounding in the hallway. Jenny and Sydney stared at each other for only a second before opening the door. They had no chance to run out; the guards were pushing their way in, carrying one, no, two guys.

"We've got injuries. Don't know how bad," one of them said, and Sydney's gut plummeted as he laid Eric out on the examination table. Frozen blood was crusted around a gash in his forehead, and he was pale as death.

She barely had the breath to gasp, "Eric?" But there was another man still in his comrades' arms, waiting for help. "I'll pull a cot in. Hang on."

Heart pounding, she ran to the small storage area for emergency supplies. Behind her, she could hear their version of the battle – why hadn't her father told her they were under surveillance? – and Jenny's protests that she wasn't trained in triage. But as soon as she dragged the cot in, she could see that Jenny was already in full ER mode.

"You, Weiss. You awake?" Jenny pulled open his eyelid and shone her light in it. To Sydney's overwhelming relief, Eric groaned, then nodded. "Your pupils are awake, anyway. You hurting anywhere besides your head?"

"No," he said, "but that hurts like a mother."

"Okay, probably you're not dying. Congrats. I'm gonna see if your friend's doing as well as you are."

Jenny turned to her other patient, and Sydney went to Eric's side, clasping his hand in her own. Seeing him try to smile up at her, despite the wound on his temple, made her realize a lot of things that she probably should have realized a long time ago.

It's Eric, Sydney thought, as though she'd just worked out the answer to a puzzle. The warmth that had surrounded her these past months, even when she'd lost Vaughn and doubted her father and learned the whole terrible truth of her past – that had been Eric. He was her support and her shelter and her comfort –

\--but no. The feeling that was coursing through her now, electric and new, was many wonderful things, but not "comfortable." It was far too powerful for that.

Shaken, she forced herself to focus again on the crisis at hand: "What happened?"

"Guy's gun jammed. Happens in cold weather sometimes." Eric grimaced. "Then he figured out the butt of his rifle worked just fine in all temperatures."

"Wait." Sydney froze. "Where's Dad?"

"Syd –"

"Where is my father?" she demanded of the room, and the guards all looked at each other, as if afraid to answer. A hush fell, so quiet that Sydney could hear her own heart hammering within her chest.

Finally, one of them said, "Agent Bristow became separated from the group. He was one-on-one with the attack team's leader. He stopped responding to radio contact approximately six minutes into combat. When the enemy force had been eliminated, we waited the full time allowed by protocol – we waited longer – but then we came back. Those were his standing orders."

"You left him? You left Dad out on the ice with a storm coming in?"

"Syd, look at me." Eric tugged on her hand, and she whirled back toward him. Despite his pallor, his voice was firm. "Those guys did the right thing. If they hadn't, we'd all be dead."

"I know that. I do." She took a deep breath, steadying herself.

"You are NOT going out there." He studied her face, and apparently didn't find what he was looking for. "The winds are over 50 miles an hour already. It's cold as hell, and you can't see your hand in front of your face. Nobody can get through that safely, Sydney. Not even you."

"I've spent more time in the field than anybody else in this room! I've handled recovery in Antarctica before –"

"Syd, NO. It's too dangerous, and your dad would be the first one to agree. Your safety's the most important thing right now." His fingers tightened around hers. "You have to promise me, okay? As my friend, swear to me you're not going out there."

She took a deep breath. "I promise."

Eric breathed out in a sigh that could have been relief or pain, or both. "Sydney – I'm so sorry."

"Don't think about it now." She brushed her fingers against his cheek, concentrating only on him for a moment. "You need to rest. You don't have to worry about me."

"She's right," Jenny said, rising from the other guard's bedside. "He's only got a sprained knee, which heals on its own. You, on the other hand, need stitches, so I'm the one you should be worrying about. The rest of you, get the hell out of my way."

They all filed out, and Sydney watched the guards go, stumbling with exhaustion. She listened to their footsteps, waiting for them to fade to silence – then turned and ran for the supply area.

Long underwear and basic outerwear she already had on. The only guard whose storm gear would possibly fit her at this stage of her pregnancy was Eric; fortunately, he had a second set besides the ones he was wearing. Under trousers, over trousers, inner jacket, outer jacket, inner gloves, outer gloves. Balaclava, face mask, goggles.

Sydney remembered her promise to Eric, but her father was out there, lost and probably dying. She'd worry about everything else later. Compared to that, nothing else mattered.

But even as she pulled up the hood of her parka and headed for the door, she felt the material of Eric's parka straining against her belly. With her heavy-gloved hands, Sydney touched her abdomen and imagined her child – her daughter – insulated deep within.

She wasn't just risking her own life. She was risking the baby's, and all the people whose lives could only be saved by the cure the baby would provide. Should she do that? Eric was right, Sydney thought – Dad would never want me to do this, not even to save his own life.

But all those fears were of something going wrong – of failure. And Sydney knew she wouldn't fail.

**

This time of year, the sun never set in Antarctica. The storm had stirred up so much snow and ice and silt that the sky was almost black anyway.

Sydney didn't even bother looking anywhere but at her own instrument panel and the terrain immediately in front of her. As she'd known, the onboard nav system had targeted their last location – her search pattern ran out from there, fast Zs back and forth.

Even through all her layers of gear, Sydney was chilled; the swirling snow and wind would have been disorienting, if she hadn't relied totally on the panel and her own strong sense of direction. Twice a dark shape in the snow had struck both panic and hope into her heart – but upon turning the bodies over, she'd found only the corpses of men she didn't know. Men who had come to kill her, but had been stopped by her father –

Keep looking, she told herself. He's got on cold-weather gear. He can hang on if you can.

She was shaking badly by the time she saw a different shape in the cold – something gray? Sydney braked hard and just barely kept herself from skidding into another snowmobile – but not, she realized immediately, one of the Alpines. This was one of the enemy forces' machines, although they were fairly far from where the main fight had taken place.

Sydney turned off her motor and stepped into the snow. The winds buffeted her so strongly that it was difficult to stand, but she stumbled along, trying to get a look at her surroundings. Only a few feet away – so close that she gasped – was one of the deadly crevasses. Oh, God, she thought, anything but that. Don't let Dad be down in one of those, trapped where I can't help him. Please.

Then she saw a body a few steps ahead. Sinking to her knees, Sydney crawled to the man's side, where he was half-buried in snow. She began digging him out, making big scoops with her hands –

She hit a chunk of brilliant red snow and ice. Blood. More blood than anyone could lose and live.

"Oh, no," she whispered. "Please, don't let it be –"

Sydney turned the body over and saw a black man with his face half-ripped away. Her horror changed to shock as she realized – another shape lay only a few feet away, also deep in the snow. Even before she turned him over, Sydney knew it was her father.

"Dad!" She tugged at his parka, then forced herself to let go. If he was hypothermic, sudden movement could be deadly. Although she desperately wanted to feel for a pulse, removing her gloves in this wind would result in the loss of her fingers to instant frostbite. "Dad, can you hear me?"

For a moment longer, he lay still; then his head lolled to one side, and his right arm twitched.

"You're all right! You're going to be all right, I swear, I promise –" She was babbling now and didn't care. Slowly, so slowly, she began easing him into a sitting position.

His face mask was crusted with blood, so much that she almost hadn't recognized his face. Sydney didn't think he could see through it at all as he muttered, "Leave me – alone. Sleep –"

Okay. He was conscious but in a stupor – probably moderate hypothermia. It was normal for someone in his condition not to understand his surroundings and refuse help. Sydney kept reminding herself of the clinical symptoms; it helped her stay focused on the moment. Looking at the bigger picture would be a very bad idea.

"Go away," he said, a little more clearly.

"We're both going to go away. You and me. We're going away." Sydney, already clumsy with her belly, stumbled slightly as she started towing him back toward her Alpine. Any violent movement could send chilled blood from his extremities racing back toward his heart, and she didn't want that. But he couldn't help her with balance at all, and the wind was now even stronger than it had been –

Can't get back to base, Sydney decided. We'll go for one of the Jamesway huts.

She had never been to the one for this sector, but she'd seen it on a map, and could extrapolate accordingly. Of course, it might be a day or two before she could return to the station, at which point Eric would kill her – but better Eric than the storm.

"Come on, Dad," she whispered, realizing with a jolt that this was the first time she had called him "Dad" since Wittenburg. "Let's get the hell out of here."

**


	15. Chapter 15

IV.

 

Jack hovered between wakefulness and sleep, unsure of the hour. Someone was next to him in the bed – Sydney. Sydney was lying at his side, her head pillowed on his shoulder.

He heard the wind howling outside and understood. Sometimes she sneaked into their bed during the night, when there was a storm. Thunder frightened her, though she would never admit it.

"It's okay, sweetheart," he murmured. "The lightning can't get you."

"That's right. We're safe and sound."

Jack put an arm around her and fell back gratefully into darkness.

When time started again, Jack was first aware of pain – sharp and deep in his left ankle, and hundreds of tiny pinpricks on his hands and feet. He tried to remember what had happened, which mission had gone wrong, but his mind was as sluggish and slow to respond as his body. And who was it lying near him?

"Dad? Are you awake?"

He forced his eyes open. Sydney lay next to him, her long underwear soft against his chest. It came back to him at once: Brill's attack, his injury, the storm. He and Sydney were alone in one of the Jamesway huts, and from the sound of the wind outside, the Katabatic storm was still raging.

"Weiss should have stopped you," he said, surprised at how much the words hurt his scratchy throat.

"Eric was injured. Otherwise, I'm sure he would have tried." She sat up quickly, crawling over him to the small heater nearby. Jack felt the lack of her warmth at his side – though, of course, she'd only been holding him to counter the hypothermia. Standard field procedure.

He began to sit up as well, but Sydney held out her hand. "Move slowly." Although he could have pointed out that he'd memorized the injury protocols as well as she had, he simply obeyed her. She held out a bottle of apple juice he recognized as part of the emergency kit, which she'd been warming. "Drink as much of this as you can. And don't move your left foot if you can avoid it. I didn't bind it up because you needed your circulation, but it's seriously swollen."

Jack drank, realizing only when the lukewarm fluid flowed into him how chilled he still was; it felt like fire in his stomach. Sydney, in her cream-colored long underwear, was backlit by the heater's orange glow. The sun coming through the windows was still weak and gray with the storm. He looked around at their pallet, the pile of outerwear still dripping melted ice on the floor where Sydney had tugged it away from each of them. "How long have we been out here?"

"I found you about three and a half hours ago. We reached the Sector 10 Jamesway approximately three hours ago."

"Brill's team?"

"That was Thomas Brill?" But she snapped back into reporting mode immediately. "They're all dead. I guess now we just have to worry about whoever it was he was working for."

"I believe he may have been working for himself," Jack said, weighing the potential players in the scenario versus Brill's own rigid independence and rogue status among Rambaldi followers. "He probably sought to capture you and eliminate the rest of us."

"You mean – he would have either saved me or killed me, depending on who bid more." Sydney's lips pressed together into a thin line.

"In essence." Jack wished he'd had a better view when he killed the man. "We'll have to step up patrols, regardless. He may have been working alone, or he may not. We can't afford to assume."

"Does this mean that the next time the shelter's being surrounded by a hostile force, you might mention it to me?"

Jack was in no mood for this discussion. "You didn't need to worry about it."

"Tell that to somebody who didn't haul you in from the ice today."

"Which you shouldn't have done."

Sydney looked up at the Jamesway's arched ceiling, obviously frustrated. He prepared himself for a cutting remark and then silence; he wasn't prepared to see tears welling in her eyes. "Don't you believe in me at all?"

He stared at her, unable to comprehend the question. "You can't seriously think that I doubt your ability."

"No. That's not what I'm talking about. You send me on dangerous missions all the time, and you always know I'm going to get the job done. It's my judgment you don't trust."

Jack wished he were still unconscious. "Sydney, this isn't the time."

"What else do we have to do?" She motioned to their surroundings – the small hut, quivering slightly in the gale-force winds. "This storm's not blowing over for a while."

They remained quiet for a few moments, and Jack realized that if he dissuaded her from speaking again, she would drop the subject. Fighting his own instincts, he forced himself to say, "I trust your judgment."

"No, you don't. You never let me make my own decisions." Sydney held up a hand, stopping him from objecting. "That's not exactly what I meant. It's – you don't give me the information I need to make some of my own decisions. You hide the truth from me."

"What I hid from you could only have hurt you."

"And it hurt me worse because I found out later, and from Lauren, of all people! I can understand you not telling me about all of this when I was a child, but I've been an adult for years. I've known about Rambaldi. Why didn't you consider talking to me?"

"I did consider it." He had come close – so close – to revealing the truth to her before she left in pursuit of Lauren. Jack still berated himself for not doing so, or at least from coming up with an excuse to stop her from going in the first place. "I rejected it."

Sydney's anger only intensified. "Why not? Did you just assume I'd get hysterical and overreact?"

"When have you done anything else?"

Jack regretted the words as soon as they were spoken, but there was no taking them back. But Sydney, instead of turning from him, just dropped her head and sat quietly for a few seconds. The Jamesway shuddered in the wind.

"You're right," Sydney said.

"No – Sydney –"

"Let me finish." She took a deep breath and said, "Do you remember the day you told me you were a double agent for the CIA? At Danny's grave?"

"Of course."

"Do you remember what you said to me?"

"That I asked Devlin to let me tell you myself."

"After that. You said – 'we're going to have to learn to trust each other.' And we haven't done that, Dad. I know you so much better than I did before – and I've tried so hard – I want to believe in you. But I still don't. I can't get over the past. Every time I get close, I find out another secret you've kept, and it all falls apart."

Jack tried not to let the tears in her eyes affect him. "Your safety has always been more important than your opinion of me."

Sydney shook her head. "Maybe you can deal with not caring about my opinion. But I care about yours. I'm always going to. When you don't trust me – it's like I was a little girl again, when you were gone for so long, and I thought you didn't love me."

That hurt more than anything else she'd said in months – the solid reminder of how pathetically he'd failed his daughter in the past. "If I could make you understand anything – any one thing – it would be that I have always – this has all been for you, Sydney. All of it."

"I want to believe you," she whispered. "I try to believe you. And I'm going to keep trying. All I ask is that you try just as hard to believe in me."

Jack simply nodded. They were silent together for a while, listening to the wind, unsure how to go on.

Finally, he said, "Thank you for coming after me. I know what you risked, and I wanted to say that I appreciate it."

"I had to do it. And really – don't be mad at Eric. He was getting stitched up by Jenny when I left, or there's no way he would have let me go."

"Mr. Weiss is forgiven." He was heartened to see a tiny smile on her face. That made the rest of what he had to say easier. "But if a situation like this arises again, I don't want you to risk yourself. Even your ability has limits, and your safety is more important to me than anything else."

Instead of getting angry, she said, "Dad – right now, I need your help. I need you. Your safety _is_ my safety, and Sarah's."

"Sarah?" Jack felt a strong current of eagerness, which he tried not to let show too much. "Is that – is that the name?"

"Yeah, I guess it is. I only just realized." She put her hands on her belly and smiled. "I had the amniocentesis. I was going to tell you when you got back from patrol. You can send the report in to the CIA."

"And it's a girl?"

Sydney beamed at him, which seemed to fill the Jamesway with light. "Yes. It's a girl."

He knew he was smiling too. Embarrassed by his reaction and unsure of why, he quickly said, "You've gotten so big." Was that offensive? Sydney still looked happy. "You're always in those flannel shirts. I guess I just hadn't realized." Which he hadn't – it was almost startling to look at his daughter and see the full swell of her pregnant belly.

"Another couple of weeks, and I wouldn't have been able to fit into any storm gear," she laughed. Then, Sydney dropped her eyes, almost shy. "She's kicking like crazy right now –"

Jack understood the offer, but he still held out his hand slowly, giving her time to pull away. Instead, Sydney's fingers wrapped around his wrist and guided him to the lower curve of her belly, where her undershirt could no longer completely cover her. The heater's orange glow was reflected on her skin, and though he knew his hand was still cold, she didn't flinch from his touch. "Press in right there. Harder than that."

Pressing in hard, Jack felt an apple-sized curve against his palm. He stared down at her belly for a moment – then one small thump, and another, bounced off the heel of his hand.

"There you go," Sydney whispered, speaking to her daughter now, and not to him. "Are you saying hi to your grandfather?"

One more thump, and then the baby was still. Jack could not look up into Sydney's face. For a long time, the two of them sat there wordlessly, staring at their joined hands against her skin and waiting.

**

V.

 

Michael Vaughn had brainwashed Nadia.

That was the only explanation, Sloane thought. The only reason that his daughter, his child, the one love remaining in his life would have left him, run off in the dead of night –

Sloane shut his eyes tightly against the tears that threatened to bear him down. Sharper than a serpent's tooth, the Bible said, and its superstitions had never spoken to him more powerfully than at this moment.

But no, he would not blame Nadia. She was a lonely girl, deprived of the support and love she should have had as a child, and only a fool would believe that a father could provide for all of a young woman's emotional needs. He'd gauged the risk of an attachment when Bill asked to retrieve Michael in the first place; foolishly, he'd believed that Vaughn's devotion to Sydney would prevent anything untoward. How had he failed to understand that Vaughn wouldn't hesitate to manipulate Nadia for his own purposes?

In some ways, that hurt most of all – the knowledge that Nadia was being used.

"The horses came back," Bill announced, coming in with dust still on his clothes. "There was no sign of – well, the horses are fine. We should send guards into town soon; it looks like the kids are going to make it."

"We can do that." Sloane's calculations had already carried him much further. "I think our best chance to apprehend them lies in monitoring CIA communications. We still have some of the links the late Ms. Reed established. As soon as your son tries to go through regular channels, we'll be able to pinpoint their location and get them back."

Bill folded his arms. "I'd assume Michael would have the good sense to go through back channels."

"He'll find that most of those have been closed with the death of Marcus Dixon." For you, Emily, he thought, feeling the lone glimmer of pleasure he'd known all day. "But he has no other means of obtaining money or resources for their escape. Nadia, on the other hand – use our connections in Argentine intelligence. Michael may attempt to convince her to make contact."

"So you're blaming him."

Sloane wished he did not owe this man Nadia's life. "I think it's obvious that Michael was never truly reconciled to his time here."

"But you believe in this sweet love story you've cooked up for you and your daughter?" Bill laughed, shaking his head. "You can't make up for twenty-five years in six months. I've learned that much, even if you haven't."

"We don't need your relationship analysis now." God, but he missed Judy Barnett sometimes. If only things could have been different between them – then he could have enjoyed her company and perhaps profited from her expertise. For a few seconds, the image of her in this house, serving as a companion and friend to Nadia as well as his lover, tantalized him. But Judy had served another purpose, and he would have to be content with that.

"Just for the record, Brill failed to make contact again today. Either he found another buyer for whatever his mysterious intel was, or he never really had anything to bargain with in the first place. Personally, I think he was just trying to draw us out."

"Brill's a minor player with nothing of value to offer."

Bill looked skeptical. "You didn't say that when we needed him. The first errand he ran for us paid off, big time."

"Yes, that was convenient." Bored and annoyed by the distraction, Sloane replied, "Are the guards alert yet? I want one of them to drive me to the airstrip."

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to Los Angeles – hopefully, to find and speak to Jack Bristow."

Bill stared at him. "What the hell are you thinking?"

He'd been prepared for that shock; it almost amused him. "The CIA's organization is in tatters by now; their ill-founded attempt at a vaccine decimated their numbers. If Jack hasn't already found a way to turn that to his advantage and get his freedom, he will soon. I'd prefer to know where he is and to have one last chance to bring him to our side."

"Never. All those years I thought he was Nadia's father, I followed the guy. I knew what he was doing. If he'd shown any sign, any at all –"

"Everything is different for him now," Sloane said. "Sydney's dead." Jack could and would believe that her death had been Irina's work – or Bill's, whichever story would best fit whatever facts Jack had gleaned. Without his daughter to guide his purpose, Jack would be utterly lost; Sloane hoped to offer him some kind of meaning, and perhaps even friendship. Now that Nadia had run from him again, he understood anew the pain that Jack must be feeling – and knew once more his own sorrow at Sydney's death.

"And when I find the kids?" Bill asked.

Sloane resisted the urge to tell Bill that Michael was no longer welcome in this home – but Michael's exile would only romanticize him for Nadia. Better that she should continue to live with him, knowing what he had done, what lies he had told her, and turn away from him on her own.

Then she could turn back to her father, and everything would be right once more.

Smiling, Sloane said, "Make sure they're safe. And bring them home."

**

VI.

 

Sydney gunned the motor the entire way back to Mountaineer Station. After a full day of overpowering winds , the Katabatic storm had finally blown over; now she and her father were traveling back across smooth, even snow, beneath a cloudless blue sky. Exhilarated, she would gladly have taken her time and enjoyed the trip. But Dad's grip on her shoulders still wasn't as strong as it ought to have been, and despite her best efforts at a splint, she could tell his ankle was causing him severe pain.

They skidded over a small ridge, jouncing the Alpine, and her father's hands tightened. "Are you okay?" she shouted.

"I'm all right." Of course, she thought, he'd say that if he were bleeding to death. Pressing her foot down, she urged the snowmobile to go just a little bit faster.

Finally, Mountaineer Station appeared on the horizon, a shelf of snow feet-thick lining the wall closest to them. Sydney had understood the storm's severity before she ever ventured into it, but the evidence shook her nonetheless. She parked the Alpine near the others, though they were half-buried in white. "We'll have to dig all these out."

"You're not digging anything," her father ordered. She didn't argue, just stepped off and helped him up, pulling his arm across her shoulder.

After the brilliant sunlight on the snow, Sydney was blind in the relative darkness of the station. Only after the door swung shut behind them did she see Eric, white bandage around his forehead, staring at her. She remembered the promise he had extracted from her, and the insincerity with which she'd made it; Sydney didn't feel guilty for rescuing her father, but it was hard to face the hurt in Eric's eyes. "Good to see you, Jack. Sydney –"

"Eric, I didn't want to –"

"Don't." He breathed out sharply, then folded her in an embrace so tight it almost hurt. "As soon as I get done being glad you're alive, you're in serious trouble. You know this."

"Yeah." Sydney hugged him back with her free arm, highly conscious of her father's proximity – and, no doubt, his violent desire to be anywhere else. If she gave into her desire to kiss Eric, it would probably finish Dad off. She had so much she needed to say about how she felt, but this wasn't the time or place. "Okay. Help me get Dad to the examination room, will you? And we need Jenny – his ankle should probably be in a cast, and painkillers would be a good idea –"

"I can talk to the doctor myself, you know." Dad felt good enough to be grumpy; that was a positive sign.

To her surprise, Eric didn't immediately move to assist her. "Guys, we're had – a development you two should know about."

"Development?" Sydney didn't like the sound of that, at all. Eric's general conversational mode was blunt honesty; the more tactful and obscure he got, the more worried he was about the situation. "What does that mean?"

Dad said, "Brill wasn't alone, was he?"

"That's the popular theory," Eric replied. "Listen – first of all, we haven't given out any information, no names –"

Sydney cocked her head as she realized people were arguing in the common room, the guards' voices brusque. "What's happening in there?"

"Interrogation." Dad hopped toward the sound, forcing Sydney to help him forward. "You captured someone?"

"Someone walked in. That would be the more accurate way to put it," Eric replied, following them. "The big news is –"

A voice from the common room said, "I came alone. Believe it or don't."

Whirling to face her father, Sydney felt her jaw drop open in shock. Although Dad kept better control, she could tell he thought the same thing she did. "It can't be."

"But it is." Dad took a deep breath. "Let's go."

The guards, still arguing with their prisoner and each other, didn't notice at first when Sydney and her father appeared in the doorway; the kneeling prisoner, hands on head in the center of the room, faced away from them. Dad's arm tightened around her shoulders, and she leaned closer to him, so that they seemed to be holding each other up. Sydney whispered, "Oh, my God."

Everyone fell silent. The prisoner finally turned her head, and then gasped like a drowning woman breaking the water's surface.

Sydney didn't know whether to cheer or to cry. "Mom?"

**


	16. Chapter 16

_You thought that it could never happen  
To all the people that you became  
Your body lost in legend,  
The beast so very tame.   
But here, right here,   
Between the birthmark and the stain,  
Between the ocean and your open vein,  
Between the snowman and the rain,  
Once again, once again,  
Love calls you by your name. _

Shouldering your loneliness  
Like a gun that you will not learn to aim,  
You stumble into this movie house –  
Then you climb, you climb into the frame.

\--"Love Calls You By Your Name," Leonard Cohen

 

IRENICON: Book Eight

 

I.

 

**Los Angeles, California**

 

I wouldn't be dying if I hadn't married a putz.

Carrie hated herself for the thought – but she felt horrible, and she knew she was going to die, and even if it looked like Mitchell was going to be fine, she still didn't know that for sure. In her head, she understood that the Bloodsight plague was Rambaldi's work, that it had been released by Arvin Sloane, and that if Marshall had come up with a vaccine that protected 75% of the people who took it, that was still pretty impressive. And because she'd already been reassigned to the Rambaldi task force, she would have been given the experimental vaccine even if she hadn't been Marshall's wife.

But Milo Rambaldi, Arvin Sloane and the son of a bitch who had assigned her to the Rambaldi task force were all far, far away. Marshall was here. Now. Babbling like a putz.

"So, it's official, Schwarzenegger was just on TV to announce it – 'martial law,' that sounds kind of scary, kind of like a Schwarzenegger movie, if you think about it. Not 'Predator' really, at least we don't have THAT problem, but maybe 'Total Recall' or 'The Running Man,' something post-apocalyptic – you know, I don't think people are going to want to see those kinds of movies anymore, assuming anyone's even going to be making movies anymore –"

"Marshall," she choked out, "I'd like some water."

"Water. Of course you do – you need water – be right back." He bolted from their bedroom, presumably for the kitchen.

When Carrie had become ill – months after the vaccination, just when they had really thought everyone else was safe – Marshall had tried to take her to a hospital. The CIA facility had been filled to capacity, but neither of them had been prepared for every other hospital to be in the same situation. After a long and terrifying day of driving through roads clogged with people fleeing Los Angeles, Carrie had simply told Marshall to take her home.

It wasn't like she'd have better remedies than hot toddies and Aleve at the hospital, anyway. She might as well die in her own bed as anywhere.

But at least in a hospital room, everything would be clean and white and – antiseptic. Carrie wouldn't have been surrounded by her failures: the ugly bedroom set she'd kept meaning to replace but never did, the clothes in her closet she never lost enough weight to wear again, and always, always, always, Marshall.

She didn't regret dating him. She didn't regret getting pregnant. But she'd married Marshall in a moment's sentimentality, not because she truly wanted to, and Carrie knew that she was only saving them from divorce by making him a widower. Worst of all was that Marshall didn't seem to have a clue; no matter how many times she pushed him away, he just didn't get it.

Like a stray dog you've fed once, she thought, wincing against the lancing pain in her chest.

Carrie heard someone at the door and turned, expecting Marshall with a glass of water and yet more trivia. Instead, Robin Dixon stood there, balancing Mitchell on her hip. "Somebody just had his bath," Robin announced. "I think he'd like to see his Mama."

"Bring him here." She managed to hold out her heavy arms, and Robin laid Mitchell on her stomach. His skin smelled like Baby Magic and talcum powder. He was willing to be cuddled for a few moments, but then he began crawling across the bedcovers, exploring.

Robin grinned. "He loves his bath. We play with the little ducks and everything. I think he'll learn to swim really early."

Carrie stopped smiling at her boy just long enough to glance over at Robin. "Did you bathe him all by yourself?"

"I'm old enough to babysit! I promise I am."

"No – that's not what I meant –" Do I snap at people so much that they just assume that's what I'm doing, all the time? Carrie wondered. Yes, in fact, I do. "I just meant – thanks. I appreciate the help. I know Marshall does too."

Robin smiled, almost pitifully grateful to be of assistance. When the Dixon kids had first moved in, Carrie hadn't known what to do with them; she'd only met them a handful of times, and both children were sick with grief. But after her illness, they'd both pitched in, Robin especially. For the first time, it hit Carrie that Mitchell would probably grow up with Robin and Stephen. Her son would never remember his mother, but he'd know the Dixon kids his whole life.

"Mitchell's a really good boy," Robin said, reaching out to stroke his wispy dark hair. Mitchell, oblivious to the attention, set to work gnawing on the lapel of Carrie's pajama top. "Most kids that age, they fuss a lot. But he's sweet. All he wants to do is hug people -- or take stuff apart. I guess he gets that from his Daddy, huh?"

"He gets the sweet part from his Daddy too." Carrie pulled Mitchell back into her arms.

How much longer would she have the strength to hold her son? A few days, maybe.

"Mitchell ought to be in bed," Carrie murmured. "Could you put him down?"

"Sure." Robin collected him, and Carrie's heart burned as Mitchell held out his arms to her. She managed not to start crying until the kids were gone.

After another few minutes – after she'd sobbed herself out – Marshall finally returned with the water. His face was unusually grave. "The agency called. Somebody else got sick – Dr. Barnett, Judy, you know? We thought we were clear but, well, we're not. Now it's at least another month before I can get all of us to Anta – to the secret safe place."

"Marshall." She held out her hand to him, and he took it, apparently surprised at the sign of affection. "You did your best, okay? You saved a lot of people. That's all anybody can ask for."

"It wasn't enough." Marshall hung his head.

She thought: I wouldn't have Mitchell if I hadn't fallen for a putz.

"Hey," Carrie said, so that he would look at her again. "Did I ever tell you that marrying you was the best thing I did in my whole life?"

Marshall's face slowly lifted into a gentle smile, and he brought her hand to his lips to kiss her fingers.

It didn't matter if it wasn't true, Carrie decided. All that mattered was that he believed it.

**

II.

 

Sydney was alive.

Irina was on her feet in an instant, ignoring the rifles her captors aimed at her. "My God. Sydney – how –" Then she saw Jack and slowly released the breath she'd been holding. "You did this."

"Yes." It was his only greeting; his arms were still wrapped around Sydney, who almost seemed to be holding him up. They both looked pale and tired and more beautiful than Irina had ever seen them before. It cut her open just to look into their faces, as though the sight were a blade slicing through burn-blackened skin to find the red pulse of blood beneath.

Irina had been numb to the world. Now she was alive again.

"How did you find us?" Sydney's voice shook. "Have you been looking for us, all this time?"

"Sydney – I thought you were dead. I thought – " Irina felt tears rimming her eyes and didn't try to check them. Let the guards see. It was worth revealing the vulnerability, to let Jack and Sydney see it too. "I thought your father was in jail. I never dreamed this was possible."

The young man behind them – Eric Weiss, friend to Sydney and Vaughn, whom she had seen in person only when he fell into the crosshairs of her rifle four years ago – scowled at her. "So, you were just in Antarctica for a stroll? Don't tell me: You love penguins because they're so gosh-darned cute."

"My sister – Katya – she left a message for me before she died. Only coordinates. I followed her lead, but I didn't know what I'd find."

Weiss didn't look convinced, but Irina didn't care. Sydney was alive. She was alive, and safe, and Jack had been taking care of her. And the cure was still within her.

Irina had not damned the world after all.

As Jack slumped against the doorjamb, perhaps in exhaustion, Sydney stepped forward hesitantly. Only then did Irina see how wide her daughter's belly was, straining even against the considerable width of her parka.

"Sydney's having a baby." Jack had the worn, wary expression of a boxer in the tenth round. "I never thought of anything to say after that."

"My God." The oath slipped out as reverently as though Irina actually believed in a god. At this moment, she almost could.

"Mom, were you out in the storm? You don't look good."

The long night she'd spent nearly freezing before stumbling across a Jamesway by pure luck – it wasn't a story worth repeating. "It's nothing. Tell me how you are."

"I'm good." Sydney looked more dazed than anything else. Her baby, having a baby of her own – Irina's mind was reeling. Even her considerable ability to compensate for shifts in fortune could not answer this moment.

Then Jack stumbled forward, only just catching himself from falling. Snapping out of her confusion in an instant, Sydney said, "Dad needs medical attention, immediately. He probably has a broken foot, and he was hypothermic when I found him. Mom, I want Jenny to look at you too. She's our doctor."

"Hey, hey." One of the guards stepped forward, his rifle at the ready. "This is Irina Derevko. She's still on the Ten Most Wanted list –"

"She's my mother." Sydney's eyes were blazing fire, and the protectiveness she saw there warmed Irina more than she would have thought possible.

"No offense, Agents Bristow, but this situation – I've read the report –"

"That's exactly right." Jack spoke this time, his words as clear and sharp as if they'd been chiseled into ice. "You've read the report. You have read words written on paper that someone else prepared and handed to you in a neatly bound folder. That is what you know about this situation. Have I made myself understood?"

Nobody seemed inclined to argue further.

Jack added, "Minimal restraints, light guard. And she receives medical attention immediately."

"After you, you mean." Sydney turned around to support him again. "Let's go."

The doctor proved to be a small, argumentative woman whose attitude faded into silence as soon as Irina fixed her in her stare. A cuff was clipped to her ankle and then to the cot, but that was fine; Irina was grateful for the excuse to lie down and not have it thought of as weakness.

"You needed an ER doctor, not an OBGYN," the doctor said as she pushed up the leg of Jack's trousers. "You realize this, right?"

While Jack gritted his teeth through the uncomfortable examination, Sydney sat by Irina's side – half-toppling onto the cot, clumsy with her new weight. "I have a lot of questions," Sydney said, her hair falling across her cheek as she looked down.

"I'll answer them if I can." How much did they know? More than Irina had thought, if they felt no anger – and it appeared that they did not. She smiled at the belly that had been revealed when Sydney unzipped her parka. "How far along are you? Six months?"

"A little more. It's a girl. Sarah."

"I like that name." Irina would have said that no matter what the name actually was, but in this case, it was true. I will have a granddaughter named Sarah, she thought. The name made it no less surreal. Irina reached up to tuck a lock of Sydney's hair behind her ear, but Sydney pulled away. Some anger still, then. It was still a better welcome than Irina had ever hoped for.

"The good news: You don't have any broken bones," the doctor said to Jack. "The bad news: You have what we call in medical terminology one serious motherfucker of a sprained ankle. Everything you could have pulled out of whack, you did. Even a pretty bad break would've healed faster."

"Wrap it up. I have work to do. "

"What planet is this you come from, where you nearly die of hypothermia and think your doctor's going to let you get up and start working?" The doctor pushed his shoulders back onto the examination table. "You're going to be a grandpa before you're walking normally on this again. And you're spending at least one day on IV fluids and under close observation."

Jack would be a grandfather. They would be grandparents. Irina kept trying to get used to it. It would take a while.

Sydney awkwardly pushed herself up and took Jack's hand. "It's okay, Dad. I'm sure Eric knows we need to keep patrolling – but I'll go talk to him about it right now." She glanced over her shoulder at Irina, still hesitant. But she said, "Make sure Mom's all right too."

After Sydney had gone, the doctor covered Irina with a blanket and set them both up with IVs. They exchanged no words; the doctor spoke only to Jack. "Do you want me to move her?"

"No. Leave us."

And then she was the last place she had ever expected to be in her life – alone with Jack again. His exhaustion was clearly already getting the better of him; now that Irina was beneath a warm blanket and lying down, she could feel its heavy pull weighing her down too. But as long as Jack was looking over at her, she would find the strength to look back.

At last he said, "I read the letter you wrote to Katya."

Katya and Jack had remained in closer contact than she'd anticipated. But there was time to consider that later. At least their lack of anger was explained. "Then you know."

"I know what you told her. I don't know if I believe it."

"You do believe it. You just don't want to." Her stubborn Jack. Irina fought against her smile; it would only annoy him.

"That story explains almost everything. But one rather critical question remains." Jack breathed out. "Irina – why didn't you tell me about Nadia?"

Only Jack's blindness could have failed to show him the truth that had haunted her for a quarter of a century. "I knew Sloane had lied to me long before I ever gave birth to her. He lied about his evidence. But neither he nor I nor anybody else could know which daughter was actually the Irenicon, and which was the source of the Rain of Gold."

"It's obvious that Sydney –"

"It isn't obvious at all. You assumed." Irina let her head fall back so that she was staring up at the ceiling. The unpainted panels were marked with logos and numbers in unevenly printed blue, none of the symbols matching up at the seams. "Nobody knew for certain until the Sphere of Life was found. I meant to locate Nadia first, learn the truth myself – "

"Wait." Jack's voice was hard. "Even in Los Angeles, when you turned yourself in, you didn't know."

"That's right. I still didn't know which of my daughters I would have to kill."

She could feel his stare on her like a laser sight; Irina forced herself to face him once again. If he hadn't been injured, she wasn't certain she would have survived this interview. "The whole time you were working to win Sydney's trust – asking her about piano lessons, about the Thanksgiving pageant –"

"Every time I looked at Sydney, I knew I might yet take her life. If it had come to it, I would've pulled the trigger myself. Why so surprised, Jack? You saw it in my eyes. And I knew you did."

Jack said nothing. Irina felt strangely dizzy – perhaps from freedom, perhaps from the sudden and total surcease of her burdens. Or maybe her overtaxed body was dragging her under, demanding sleep.

She added, "If I had told you about Nadia, you would have realized all of this. You would have protected Sydney – by killing me, and killing Nadia without even waiting to find out if she was the source of the disease or its cure. I couldn't run that risk."

"I would have been right about Nadia."

"You have only one child, and she's the Irenicon. You have the luxury of absolute loyalty. I've spent twenty-five years waiting to find out which of my children had to be murdered. Do you have any idea what that's like? Trying to guess what to wish for?" Irina laughed, the sound strange even to her. "When I turned myself in, I hoped Sydney would prove to be petty and selfish. Someone I could let go. Instead, she was – she was Sydney."

Jack turned his face from her. "You raised Sydney. You never even knew Nadia."

"So I said to myself, many times. But then – at least Sydney had advantages, security, a father who loved her for herself. I knew that, wherever she was, Nadia had none of that. Everything else had been stolen from her. How could I take away her life? I wanted an answer so badly. There was never an answer." Irina's gaze drifted back to the ceiling as she began surrendering to her exhaustion at last. "For a quarter of a century, I endured the knowledge that even if I found Nadia, even if I won Sydney back, I would have to lose one of my daughters forever. For the past three months, I thought I'd lost them both forever. I know you've wanted to see me punished, Jack. Believe me when I tell you that I have been."

**

III.

 

Nadia had never known a day so long, so hot, so filled with dust and sweat.

"Four steps forward," Michael would say, guiding them ahead. "Okay. Hang on. Let me look at this." And they would stand there for long minutes, hands clenched tightly despite the moisture pooling between their fingers, as he tried to evaluate the risk posted by a stone or a tuft of desert grass. Their progress was achingly slow. In the hottest part of the day – and, in this part of Mexico, it was scorching hot even in January – the heat shimmered up from the sand in waves. Nadia, dizzy and tired, kept repeating to herself, Don't faint. It doesn't matter what else you do. Don't faint.

They had only two water bottles that had fallen from the horse's pack when they ran off – it was enough to allow for a few greedy sips every hour, but not enough to dab away the sand and grime that stuck to her damp skin. Nadia could feel lines of dust around her eyes, beneath her breasts, at the back of her knees.

"We should move to the west," she said to Michael at the very worst point of mid-afternoon.

"If we go to the shoreline, Sloane can track us."

"If he were tracking us at this point, he'd have us already." Nadia's training came from books, but she was determined to call on it when she could. "He knows where the mines are buried; his people could travel through this, if he wanted. So he's planning on getting us in town."

Michael nodded, considering that. His hair was slick to his scalp with sweat. "We can't move through this at night. And the sand by the water will be too loose for him to have planted any mines there."

"We can walk. Or rest." Then Nadia smiled for the first time that day. "Or bathe."

He grinned back. "When you put it that way –"

They heard the ocean before they saw it, the sound of waves taunting her for the longest time as they painstakingly edged across the ground. Finally, just at sunset, she turned to see the last light of day reflecting on the water. It took them only a few more minutes to edge out of solid ground and onto soft, yielding, safe sand.

Michael sank down onto his knees, as though he'd been in danger of falling. "I'm good," he said, glimpsing her face and reading her worry. "I just – I'm gonna sit here for a second."

"I'm swimming. Don't look." In truth, Nadia thought as she ran to the water's edge, stripping away her clothes, she'd like it if Michael did look. But she was more interested in the water, at least for the moment.

Naked, she ran into the surf, laughing in sheer delight as cold spray shocked her skin. The swift contrast chilled her, but shivering had never been so welcome. Nadia dunked her head beneath the water, feeling her grimy hair instantly become cool and light, floating free.

She surfaced, gratefully gulping in salty sea air. The water lapped up to her shoulders, which was demure enough. "You should come in," she called. "It's wonderful."

"Yeah. Okay. Hang on." Something in Michael's voice made Nadia instantly certain that he had, in fact, looked. Even as the water cooled her skin, Nadia felt a different kind of heat kindle inside.

As he walked toward the water's edge, he unbuttoned his shirt; she allowed herself to watch – what was impolite in that? – while he tossed it aside. He had a long, lean torso, muscles more defined than she would have thought. Even in the twilight, she could see deep bruises all along one side. Michael had acquired those from his trips into the computer room to find the truth, the same truth she'd tried so hard to ignore –

No. She wasn't going to think of that. She was going to think about Michael.

Nadia turned her head long enough to allow Michael to strip down and enter the water. It gave her a chance to scrub down her skin with her palms, arms and belly and thighs, while she listened to him splash and sputter a few feet away. At last he said, "This is the absolute greatest feeling in the world."

She turned back to him, laughing. "We should have done this all along."

"Tomorrow, we will. At least until we get within range of town." Michael shook his head, spraying water from his hair like a dog. His grin was bright in the evening's dark. He had nice shoulders.

Their eyes met, and his smile faded – not disappearing, but becoming more intent.

Her better instincts battled against her desire, and desire won. Nadia stepped closer to Michael, into shallower water, so that the surface of the waves lapped around the top curves of her breasts. She said nothing.

Michael was trying – and failing – not to stare. Maybe he was fighting the same battle she'd fought. If so, desire was winning there, too.

Slowly, giving him time to pull away, she reached toward him, her fingers skimming just beneath the water's surface, like a fish. When her hand touched his bruised skin, they both breathed in sharply. "Michael –" she whispered.

Nadia didn't know what she would have said after that, and she never found out. He seized her arms and clutched her to him, belly to belly, his erection hard against her pelvic bone. When their mouths met, the kiss was hard and demanding, her teeth cutting into her lips. She didn't care; all that mattered was that he wanted her, and she could give herself to him.

A wave hit them hard, knocking her off balance, but Michael caught her. One of his hands slid down her body, palming her breast so fiercely it almost hurt. Nadia opened her mouth wider, inviting his tongue deeper inside, already desperate for him to take her back to shore and lay her down upon the sand.

Just when she thought he would, Michael pulled his mouth away, panting for air. "Nadia – wait."

His hands slipped away from her; Nadia, trembling in the waves, suddenly felt more exposed than she had been just a few moments before when she was naked in his arms.

"I've done this before." Michael wasn't quite looking into her eyes. "Rushed after the first person who made me feel – something, anything – without asking myself why."

She shrank away, grateful for the darkness that would hide her embarrassment. "I'm sorry."

"Nadia, no. Don't apologize for – I did this. I started it. And I – you know that I –"

"You don't have to explain. It's all right. We were only – celebrating. We got carried away." Nadia stepped deeper into the water, trying to ignore the painful need he had awakened. "We can travel further tonight. Just give me a few minutes."

It wasn't Michael's fault. She understood everything completely. He still loved Sydney – the other sister, the fallen martyr, the salvation that had been stolen from them all.

Nadia was the disease. Of course he would turn away.

**

IV.

 

Sark knelt on the sand, staring out at the sunset on the water. He would die looking at a sunset – how unimaginably trite.

"You missed them by a day," Bill Vaughn said, never removing the muzzle of his gun from the back of Sark's neck. "One day, Julian. If you'd gotten here 24 hours earlier, you would have found Sloane and Michael and Nadia -- everybody you were looking for. Wouldn't have run into a couple dozen extra guards, either. Imagine how much better your whole world would be right now if you'd just gotten here One. Day. Earlier."

Extra guards. One day. Interesting. "If you only just added extra guards, you weren't expecting an assault. You were responding to something else. May I surmise that at least one of the recent departures was, shall we say, unanticipated?"

"Shut the hell up." The senior Mr. Vaughn was more distressed than he ought to have been by Sark's conclusion; this confirmed that Michael Vaughn had defied his father and escaped. If this location had still been considered secure, Sloane would not have allowed his daughter to leave it – therefore, she must have escaped as well. Perhaps she had been persuaded to do so by Michael Vaughn, whose power over women remained, in Sark's opinion, mystifying.

"I realize you have no reason at present not to kill me immediately," Sark said. "I would therefore like to offer you one."

Silence. The gun's metal was still cool against the base of Sark's spine. He removed his mind from his own circumstances and studied his surroundings – the fine white sand, the excellent view, the prints of horseshoes a few feet away.

Unbelievable, Sark thought. Sloane found his daughter and bought her a dollhouse and a pony. Was Michael Vaughn part of the playset? Only the dead bodies of his own assault team marred the scene.

At last, Bill Vaughn said, "I'm listening."

The bait, the hook, and now the nibble. Sark refrained from smiling as he began winding in the line. "I can find Irina Derevko."

"A lot of men have said that. Most of them have been wrong."

"Very few men planted a tracker on her within the past month," Sark replied. "She wasn't quite herself, you see. Her guard was down. Only a fool would have foregone the opportunity."

The gun's muzzle slipped away from Sark's skin, and he allowed himself a very small sigh of relief. Bill Vaughn didn't seem to notice. "Are you sure your tracker's still operating?"

"I haven't checked the signal in the past 72 hours. I've had no need. But a quick satellite uplink should allow us to determine that for certain."

Bill Vaughn remained quiet. Had Arvin Sloane been present, he would never have dared accept such an offer; Sloane retained some of his old devotion to the mother of his child, which Sark could understand. But Bill Vaughn hated Irina Derevko as much as he feared her, and now – abandoned by his son, abandoned by Sloane – the temptation to go after her would have to be very strong.

Then again, Bill Vaughn had no love for members of the Covenant, either. Irina Derevko was still very far away; Sark was here. Would he prefer a more certain vengeance?

"Get up."

Sark rose, damp sand sticking to the knees of his trousers. Slowly, Sark lowered his hands from the top of his head and turned to face his former captor – no, his partner. Bill Vaughn looked altogether too much like his son for Sark's comfort, but that was all right. He thought of it as a glimpse into the late middle age that Michael Vaughn would never be allowed to reach.

"We're going into town," Bill Vaughn said. "We're going to double-check this signal. And if I find out you're lying –"

"You won't," Sark said. It was strangely comforting to have the truth on his side.

**

V.

 

"If you want to care about her, it's your business," Eric said. "She's your mother. It's natural. But if you want to trust her, that's everybody's business, including mine. And I think it's a bad idea."

Sydney sat on the foot of his bed, her hands resting atop her belly. Ever since the Katabatic storm two weeks before, their small world had been turned upside down – and, he thought, their relationship with it. Instead of hiding from her father, Sydney was talking to him; they weren't exactly in the "Father Knows Best" zone, but the two of them were clearly in recovery mode. Instead of feeling safely isolated from the troubles of the world outside, everyone on the station knew they'd been found once and could be again – and they all different reactions to Irina Derevko's presence.

And instead of being Sydney's best friend, Eric had found himself not knowing who or what to be anymore. Before the storm, he'd known where the boundaries between them lay. But the hours he'd spent fearing for her life had showed him just how blurred those lines had become.

"My caring about her – that's not something I can want, or not want. It just is." Sydney wasn't angry, but her voice was firm. "And I don't know if we should trust her, either. I'm just telling you that some of the information she's given so far could be worth investigating."

"Or it could be completely worthless. You know it's possible, Sydney. Just don't forget it."

Sydney cocked her head to one side, studying him. Eric had always thought that thing about pregnant women glowing was a tactful lie, until he saw Sydney. "You don't believe her story, do you? About why Nadia was born, or why she's done all the stuff she's done."

"You know how they say first impressions are important? My first impression of your mother was that she shot me in the neck. Do you remember that? Because I do."

"Oh, God." Sydney looked so stricken that he wished he hadn't said it. "Eric – I'm sorry –"

"I'm not going to start talking about 'the darkness' again, so, you can rest easy. All I'm asking is that you remember your mother has lied to you before."

"Most of the people who lied to me in the past couple of years were trying to take care of me. Most of the people who told me the truth were trying to hurt me. It's hard to know who to trust." Sydney breathed out, and then, to his surprise, she relaxed and smiled at him. "At least I have one person in my life I don't ever have to doubt."

Eric tensed up; he couldn't help it. "You know, it's getting late. A girl like you doesn't need beauty sleep, but I sure do."

Sydney didn't budge. "You're still mad."

"Mad? What are you talking about? I'm not mad."

"You've been acting like this ever since the storm." Sydney lowered her gaze, as if ashamed. "Ever since I lied to you and said I wouldn't go after Dad. You've been pushing me away."

"Syd, it's okay." At first, he'd been furious at how easily she'd sworn on their friendship and then broken her word. But during those long hours of the storm, when he hadn't known if she was dead or alive and had been haunted by the thought of her lying helpless in the snow – Eric had known that he would have told any lie, betrayed any promise, if it meant he could help her. He couldn't blame Sydney for feeling the same way about Jack. "You got back safely, and you brought your dad with you. That's all that matters."

"Then why is there this wall between us?" Sydney hesitated, and then, to Eric's astonishment, she slowly reached out and wrapped his hand in hers. "Is it – Eric, is this because –"

"There's no wall. We're wall-less. Wall-free." He knew he should pull his hand back, but he couldn't. He just couldn't. "I'm always going to be your friend. Even if I get mad at you sometimes, okay?"

She sat silently for a few moments, not letting go of his hand, her expression giving away no hint of what she might be thinking. Finally, she said, "Aren't we ever going to talk about this?"

Danger, Will Robinson, danger. "About – about what?"

"About this." Sydney squeezed his hand tighter, sending warmth flooding up his arm, pooling in his belly, dizzying his brain. "Whatever this is that's happening between us."

Their eyes met, and Eric had to fight to turn his thoughts into words. "Oh. I – oh."

"Eric?"

"I'm sorry. It's just -- I didn't think there was anything happening between us. I -- I thought it was only happening to me."

Sydney's thumb brushed along his knuckles, a half-inch of sensation that seemed to ripple throughout his body. "When they brought you in, and you'd been hurt, I realized what it would do to me if something happened to you. I think I'd been falling for you for a long time, but I'd just been too confused to see it."

Part of Eric wanted to beg her to repeat that – "falling for you," just those three words – over and over. Another part of him prevailed. "You've been through a lot. It's easy to get confused." He forced himself to let go of her hand. "I don't want to make things more confusing for you."

"You're the only part that isn't confusing. What I feel about you – it's scary and it's new and I know it's weird, because of Vaughn, but – Eric, I can't pretend I don't feel it."

Vaughn, he told himself. Think about Vaughn. The father of her baby. Her soulmate. Your best friend who fell in the line of duty. Remember that guy? Right. "Listen, I'm not even gonna try to lie about this. I'm crazy about you." His voice seemed to close up on the words, but he kept going. "I'll still be crazy about you when all of this is over. But –"

"But you're scared I won't feel the same way."

He managed to smile. "When you put it like that, it sounds chicken."

"It's not chicken. It's normal. You're my best friend, and I don't want to mess it up either." Sydney's eyes never left his, and she was leaning closer, so close. "But ever since the storm – it gets harder and harder to be with you and not –"

There was still time to make a joke, or pour cold water on the situation, and Eric knew on one level that this was exactly what he should do. But Sydney was leaning closer to him, and he was leaning closer to her, as if his body understood what was going on a lot better than his brain did. His voice low, he whispered, "Not -- what?"

"This," she said, bringing her lips to his.

The kiss was gentle at first, then harder -- with Sydney leading the way, so aggressive and so eager that it took Eric's breath away. He ran his hands through her hair, down her back, still dazed by the miracle of it: Sydney's lips brushing his, Sydney's nose bumping against his cheek, the scent of her, the taste of her, everything.

Eric brushed two fingers along of her throat; Sydney breathed in sharply, so much so that for a moment he was frightened he'd hurt her. "You okay?"

"Yeah." She sounded as shaken as he felt. "It's just – when you're pregnant, your skin gets a lot more sensitive. And that – just that touch -- that felt so good."

Ten minutes ago, Eric could never have imagined asking Sydney Bristow to spend the night: She was Vaughn's girl, and the unattainable, perfect woman he'd dreamed of for more than a year now, not to mention very pregnant. But now – with Sydney in his arms, her eyes still closed in pleasure from one simple touch – Eric couldn't have done anything else. "Stay with me."

"Yes." No woman had ever said anything to him that turned him on as much as that one word.

Slowly, he started kissing her neck, sliding his lips along the long line of her pulse, tracing the beat with his tongue, taking his time. His doubts hadn't gone away – but this wasn't the time for them, not anymore.

It was Sydney who sank down upon the bed, pulling Eric with her. He started to move over her to kiss her again – but the tactical difficulty made itself apparent right away. "Whoa. Hang on."

Sydney pulled him back down, on his side, so that they faced each other. "It's new to me too. We'll figure it out."

"Hey, my CIA aptitude tests? I aced the spatial relationships, babe." Then his eyes widened. "This – we're not – the baby wouldn't – she won't KNOW, right?"

Was there any sound in the world better than Sydney's laugh? "She won't know. And it's safe, as long as we're careful of a couple things."

"You tell me what's right, okay?" Eric murmured, as he ran one hand down her arm, along her side, and watched Sydney shiver. "Tell me what to do for you."

"Only if you promise to tell me what to do for you --"

And then they were kissing again, touching, forgetting jokes and words and everything else that could get in the way. Eric learned how she liked to be kissed, how her hands felt on his body, the little whimpering sound she made when he did something right. He couldn't lay her on her back – bad for the baby, and a shame, because he had definitely imagined being on top of Sydney Bristow – but other than that, there was nothing they couldn't do, with some ingenuity.

Once she'd unbuttoned her shirt, he slipped the fabric of her bra away from her breasts, nuzzling the delicate skin there. "Any surprises I should know about?"

"Not yet," Sydney said, which was a relief. "But they're really – the whole sensitivity thing – there's it's just –" Her entire body tensed as he claimed one of her nipples in his mouth. "Oh, God. Oh, Eric, yes –"

And that sounded like a cue to keep going for a while.

At last he undressed her slowly, making sure to brush his fingertips along every inch of her skin. Sydney was almost bashful when they finally lay naked together, putting a hand on her belly. "I guess this isn't the fantasy."

"Syd, don't be crazy." He covered her hand with his, stroking the swell of her abdomen with their joined fingers. "You're beautiful."

She smiled at him as they kissed again, and her hand drifted lower, perhaps wanting confirmation of his desire. Eric groaned as her fingers closed over his cock, already so hard for her that it hurt. Sydney rubbed her thumb across the tip, slow and teasing, before gripping him just tightly enough to send him to the edge. Oh, God, he thought, thrusting slowly into her fist, please let me last long enough to actually make love to her. "I still don't know how we're gonna do this," he said, trying to keep his voice from shaking, "but now would be a real good time to figure it out."

In a flash, Sydney had turned from him and started grabbing pillows; Eric was puzzled for about half a second, until she started piling them near the edge of the bed. "If I could – like, prop up, maybe –"

"Right. Yeah. Absolutely. Propping up is good." They kept kissing, panting for breath when their lips parted, piling up the pillows and rolling up the blanket to create a soft wedge for Sydney to lean back on as she sat at the very edge of the bed. Grateful for their low bunks, Eric knelt on the floor in front of her, parting her thighs with his hands. "Is this going to work?"

"Only one way to find out." Sydney kissed him deeply as he moved closer to her, and Eric almost didn't see how the sex could be better than the kiss.

He went slowly, so slowly, slipping in inch by inch, breath by breath. Sydney kept nodding, her breaths coming fast; her hands gripped his shoulders, steadying herself. "Yes," she kept whispering, guiding him deeper.

Then finally he was moving inside her, still taking it slow, and Eric didn't see how anybody could ever want anything else but this, gentle and deliberate and soft. When Sydney let her head fall back, he kissed the long line of her throat, lost in sensation and in the knowledge that she was swept up in it too.

Eric also learned that, when he took it gentle and deliberate and slow like that, he could last a really, really long time.

Sydney was the one who began urging him for more, clenching the muscles inside harder, faster, and then harder again; knowing that she was racing for her own climax made him unable to hold his back any longer. She came, crying out so loudly the whole station probably heard it, and he didn't care. Eric kept thrusting, moving more quickly with her, still careful, so careful, but she felt so good, and –

A rush of heat, and he was with her, lost to everything else in the world.

Within a few minutes – and after some rearrangement of pillows – Eric lay next to Sydney in the bed, spooned behind her back. She had fallen asleep almost instantly; he felt like he'd never sleep again. He just wanted to watch her, to know that he was her lover, and that this was a very different kind of world than he'd ever dared hope.

He slid his arm around her, and felt a small shift within her body – the baby, moving beneath his hand.

Eric thought of Vaughn – the best friend he'd ever had, and the child's father. He spoke to Vaughn in his mind: I promise, I'm going to love her like she was my own.

Then he tried very hard to believe he'd only said that about the baby.

**


	17. Chapter 17

VI.

 

Vaughn stared the man in the eyes, keeping a smile on his face – projecting not insincerity, but confidence. "How much did they offer you, for information about us?"

No answer.

"Stay silent, and you get double that, tonight." Vaughn nodded toward the decade-old computer in the back of the police station, its screen flickering like a beacon. "All I need is 30 minutes on that machine and whatever account information you want to give me. It's that easy. If I don't come through, you pick up the phone and call them."

The policeman's gaze flickered from Vaughn over to Nadia, who was leaning languidly against the counter. Vaughn thought that was a good sign; at the moment, unshaven and dusty from their two-day hike, he knew he didn't look like a guy who could deliver up serious cash on a few minutes' notice. But even in this condition, in a cinderblock station house with cheap linoleum on the dusty floor, Nadia looked like a woman who could summon money, power or men whenever the hell she wanted.

She smiled at the officer, just invitingly enough to tempt, not enough to tease. Vaughn felt something in his belly turn over, but tried to ignore it.

At last, the policeman gestured to the machine. Trying not to be in too obvious a hurry, Vaughn took his seat. Thank God, he thought, this is over. This is finally over.

He first accessed the financial accounts Jack Bristow had turned over to him. Vaughn was jarred to see how much money had been taken from it – what the hell had Jack been up to, before Sydney's murder finally broke him? But the remaining funds were still more than enough for Vaughn's purposes. He wired what he'd promised to the officer, then more to a local bank for his and Nadia's immediate needs. Then, fingers shaking, he typed in the address for a CIA site, a "back door" that would instantly signal a lost or missing agent's presence. This was better than making a phone call; phone lines might be tapped, with or without the officer's knowledge.

Within moments, Vaughn knew, words would begin to appear onscreen: messages typed by a computer sentry, or maybe Marshall if he was monitoring the site – God, he even missed Marshall's babbling – or perhaps even Dixon. After so many months' absence, they'd surely have questions, so verification might take a while –

Except that no words were appearing onscreen. Vaughn waited, then tried a similar site. This time he only received an error message.

This is not right, Vaughn thought. They wouldn't shut these sites down. Not unless they were abandoning half the computer network, which isn't –

"Michael?" He glanced over his shoulder to see Nadia staring down at the counter – no, he realized, at the newspaper lying there. Apparently she'd sweet-talked a copy from the officer, and now was staring down at it, white-faced.

"Hang on," Vaughn answered, trying one last site. Another error message.

"Michael, you need to see this. Please."

"You read that. I'm going to check the Times site." A few more keystrokes and the slow crawl of dial-up took him to the front page of the New York Times online, and as he read the headlines, his eyes went wide.

MARTIAL LAW FAILS TO STEM CALIFORNIA RIOTING

WORLDWIDE DEATH TOLL REACHES 100,000: PERHAPS FIVE TIMES AS MANY NOW INFECTED

CDC DENOUNCES 'IONIC CURES' AS SCAM

EUROPEAN UNION REJECTS CALL TO CLOSE BORDERS

It went on, and on, and on. Sloane must have released the Rain of Gold months ago, Vaughn realized. It's already too late to stop it. It's too late.

The CIA had possessed some data about the disease; Vaughn still remembered the test site in Italy Weiss had investigated so many months ago. So they might have had the knowledge to create a vaccine or a cure – or, at least, to try. But if they'd had such a thing, it would have been disseminated to the public a long time before the world situation reached anything like this level of crisis.

If they'd tried a vaccine, it had failed. And it was possible that nobody was answering at the back-door sites of the Los Angeles field office because that office had been closed. Nobody was there to answer.

When he looked back over his shoulder, Vaughn saw that Nadia was crying. All this damage, all this death – Sloane had used her to create it. Was Nadia weeping from the betrayal, or because she blamed herself?

Vaughn felt his jaw tighten and his heart thump harder; his fingers lifted from the keyboards as he clenched his hands, imagining having just one more chance to slit Sloane's throat. But where anger would once have clouded his thinking, now it focused him.

Among the many useful pieces of information Jack had given Vaughn was the access information for a storage vault in Santiago. Within minutes, Vaughn had arranged for the vault's contents – Krugerrands that would be more stable than most currencies, a few weapons and fake passports – to be shipped to them the next day.

The CIA obviously still existed. Vaughn could still get help from them if he chose. But there was a good chance that everyone he'd worked with was either discredited or dead, and if he walked in with a woman who could be blamed for what was happening by people who didn't understand –

That wasn't going to happen.

**

Later that night, in their hotel room, he let Nadia cry herself out on his shoulder. Vaughn held her with one arm and kept his hand on the gun he'd bought with the other. He thought the officer they'd bought off would honor their bargain, but there was no knowing. Betrayal could come from anyone, at any time.

"I held out my hand to him," Nadia gasped. His shirt was wet with her tears. "He took the blood from my finger. I thought it was – tests – that maybe he was afraid I was sick. I thought Papa was trying to take care of me."

Vaughn remembered gluing together model airplanes and holding them up for his father's approval. "I know. I understand."

She lay against his side, legs against his legs, and Vaughn felt that same pull of need for her. Fortunately, she was too miserable and exhausted now to recognize it. He couldn't give her anything now that wouldn't be tainted by his own weakness; Nadia deserved better.

All he could do for Nadia now was keep her safe. But how could he do that, in a world like this?

Once she was calm again, he whispered, "Where do you want to go?"

Nadia lifted her head. "Mozambique."

"Okay, that's a much more definite answer than I was expecting." She actually smiled, which was an encouraging sign. "Why Mozambique?"

"Ever since my father asked me to spy on you – I've also spied on your father." Vaughn half-hugged her with the arm around her shoulders, not caring that it was a strange thing to thank someone for doing. "I've overheard him talking about a man named Kazari Bomani –"

"A Rambaldi follower. He was the one who got The Telling, after your father."

"Whatever he used The Telling for, it's in Mozambique. A small city just off the Zambezi – that's where his center of operations was. A laboratory, I think he said. Whatever's there is something our fathers considered very important, and I know other people were looking for it – but they were sure nobody would get there first. I think we should prove them wrong."

"You mean – you want to go on the offensive." He realized he was grinning. "Sloane and my dad and everything else he's got on his side versus you and me and this gun."

"I'm already tired of crying." Nadia shrugged. "What else is there to do?"

In that moment, Vaughn thought, he might have loved her, if he were still capable of love.

**

VII.

 

I'm even in love with Antarctica, Sydney thought. Oh, God, I've got it bad.

It wasn't Antarctica itself she was in love with, though its stark beauty now enchanted her. Just yesterday, when she'd accompanied her mother on a (well-guarded) walk around the station, they'd seen a solar pillar, a glittering phenomenon that showed what a rainbow could do with ice instead of water. After you've jumped through a couple of priceless 13th-century stained-glass windows, you tend to get a bit jaded about beauty – or so Sydney had long believed. But the solar pillar, shining in the sky, had taken her breath away, and she'd looked over at her mother to share the wonder.

Her mother had the kind of face that didn't show wonder easily, if ever. But Sydney had seen some reflection of her own happiness there.

Sydney's conversations with her mother were, at this point, still brief and superficial. This was Dad's idea.

"If we both question her, we're likely to end up revealing too much," her father had said as they ate breakfast together that first morning.

"We're the ones asking the –" Sydney had begun, but her voice trailed off. This was her mother they were talking about; Mom would learn more while being asked questions than anyone else could hope to gain from the answers. "If it's just one of us, at least she won't have different perspectives to work with."

"Exactly." The approval was a small gesture, but one Sydney had known her father had to remind himself to offer. He was trying.

"It should be you, Dad. You're better at keeping your cards close to the vest." When his eyes met hers, wary, Sydney had laughed. "It's a compliment, this time."

Dad almost smiled.

Their interaction hadn't recovered the warmth of last year; Sydney still thought of the embraces they'd shared so easily then, and with even more longing. But at least they'd rediscovered some kind of – companionship. And now, any time Dad mentioned the baby, he called her Sarah – as if she were already there with them. He was matter-of-fact about it, but sometimes it made Sydney's eyes fill with happy tears.

Of course, the final reason she was in love with Antarctica – in love with her difficult and strange parents, with the brutal weather, with the baby that kicked inside of her, just "in love" as a constant, blissful state of being – was spending most nights in her room.

"Arms up," Eric mock-ordered as he sat behind her on the bed. Sydney obeyed, allowing him to start rubbing lotion onto her belly. She reached over her head, the better to ruffle his hair with her hands, but also to lift her breasts for his view. He sighed appreciatively, massaging her with long, warm strokes that kindled her need for him; it was delicious to know that Eric was there, waiting for her, at the end of every day. "I can't believe I could've been helping out with this a long, long time ago."

She grinned. "I just hope it keeps the stretch marks away."

"I'd still love you if you were striped like a zebra," Eric said. Then he froze, his hands suddenly stiff against the curve of her stomach.

Sydney didn't let him panic long. "If I'm going to end up striped, I'd better look like a tiger."

"You are definitely more tiger." Eric gently bit her shoulder, probably meaning to make her laugh, but instead sending shivers down her spine.

Guiding his hands up to her breasts, Sydney let her head fall back onto his shoulder as he started massaging her there too. The caretaking was slipping into foreplay – which wasn't a bad way at looking at their relationship the past few months, Sydney decided. She remembered what Francie had said about one of her college boyfriends, a guy Sydney never could see the appeal of: "Don't get me wrong. A hot man is one of the greatest things on the planet. But it's the average guys who have it all in bed. Hot men think all they have to do is look fine and show up. The ordinary guy is the one who knows it's his job to show you a good time AND knows how to do it. Take a hot guy and an ordinary guy, and nine times out of ten, it's gonna be the average one who sends you straight home to Jesus three times before sunrise."

So, so, so true, she thought. Not that Sydney considered Eric "average," not any more. He was handsome, just in a way that took longer to see –

"What are you thinking about?" Eric said, tracing a line down the center of her chest with one finger.

"About what a good lover you are."

He laughed in surprise. "That is the best answer I've ever gotten to that question. Ever. We're talking lifetime."

"It's true." Sydney turned around enough to kiss him, relishing the warmth of his mouth opening against hers. As his arms slipped lower, embracing her and baby both, she murmured against his cheek, "So, you love me."

Eric went still. "You, uh, you caught that. Earlier."

"Yeah." She cupped his face in her hand. "And I love you too."

"Syd." It was incredible to watch his face change, to see that kind of light in his eyes, and know she'd given that to him. "If I'd planned it out, you know, I wouldn't have told you I loved you for the first time with some lame-ass zebra joke."

"It doesn't matter how you told me. It just matters that you love me."

They kissed once more, more passionately now, and Sydney began tugging Eric's T-shirt up and away. As soon as she'd stripped if off, he grinned. "So, does this mean I'm supposed to ask for your father's blessing now?"

As they laughed at the shared joke, she shook her head. "God, no. I want to spare you the Wrath of Bristow as long as possible. Besides –" Sydney leaned conspiratorially close. "I like having you all to myself."

"Sydney's dirty secret," Eric said, leaning close again. "I can do that. Definitely."

**

VIII.

 

Jack observed Weiss walking into the kitchen for breakfast. There would be nothing extraordinary about this, but for the fact that thirty minutes ago, Weiss had only just walked into his bedroom, perhaps for no purpose beyond being seen walking out of it again later. Apparently he had failed to learn precisely how early Jack awoke in the morning.

This was the second time Jack had noted such behavior in two weeks. On another occasion, he'd seen Sydney, robe-swaddled after her shower, walking in the direction of Weiss' room and not her own. It was logical to assume that he had not witnessed all similar incidents. Jack thought he'd foreseen every potential complication for their stay, but – as Irina's arrival had already suggested – he had been wrong.

"Good morning, Jack," Weiss said easily, as he helped herself to some muesli, then began measuring out the powdered milk. "How's your foot?"

"Better." He could now use one crutch to get around instead of two, so technically his answer was not inaccurate. "How are you doing?"

Weiss glanced over at him, recognizing the question as unusual. "Uh, good. I'm good."

"Excellent." Jack studied Weiss as he poured the newly-made milk. "You seem -- relaxed."

"Oh, crap." Weiss let his spoon clatter as he turned to face Jack head on. "Is this the part where you shoot me?"

"Not while Sydney's happy, no." After a moment, Jack added, "And she is happy. I've seen that."

Weiss appeared not to have readied himself for any paternal response besides shooting. "Yeah. Right. Exactly. I mean – I hope she is. I want her to be."

"That said, Sydney's well-being is important to me. It hasn't escaped my notice – and obviously it hasn't escaped yours – that she's very vulnerable right now."

"Hey. Wait a second." Weiss moved forward, his eyes challenging. Jack liked it when people got angry with him; it allowed him an excellent chance to observe their unguarded reactions. "This is not me taking advantage of Sydney. I wouldn't do that, not to anybody and least of all to her."

"I see. So you began this relationship because you couldn't resist the romantic ambiance of – Antarctica."

As he'd hoped, Weiss got madder and spoke without thinking. "Listen, I could say that this is none of your business, which is damn sure what Sydney would say, but I'm not going to. I know you're trying to look out for her. Okay, you're kind of insane about it, but you know what? I like that in a guy who's looking out for Sydney. So you can question me, you can doubt me, you can have me watched. Have at it. Enjoy yourself. And if you get any good surveillance photos, send me prints. But don't accuse me of not caring about your daughter. That is the one thing you don't get to do, ever."

"Fine."

Weiss just stood there, waiting. At last he said, "That's it? 'Fine'? That's all you've got to say?"

"You've told me that you'll try to make my daughter happy, and you've suggested that when I need to keep her safe, you'll either help or get out of my way. And that's fine with me." Jack turned his attention back to his coffee, smiling only slightly as Weiss went on his way, shaking his head. The excellent mood he was now in would no doubt have lasted all day, but for the fact that he had – an interview.

**

"As far as I've been able to observe, the immunity granted by the bloodlines is dramatically lower than any of Rambaldi's followers estimated." Irina sat so regally that it would have been easy to forget that the guards outside the door weren't hers to command. "Most of them believed it would be absolute, and behaved accordingly. But I would estimate that no more than 80 percent of them are actually protected from the disease."

"Eighty percent." Jack made a few calculations. Though the risk to Covenant members and other Rambaldi followers was reasonably high, it still allowed an enormous number of them to expect to share in the immortality to come. Whatever allegiances and alliances they'd formed could be expected to remain intact, at least until the disease's final and most destructive waves. "And the vaccines?"

"Almost all useless. I received word about the CIA's attempt at one; for all the devastation it wreaked, your Mr. Flinkman came closer to devising a vaccine than anyone else – with one exception."

She parceled the information out, bit by bit, making him work for everything he wanted. Jack remembered how she'd done that in her glass cell at the CIA, taunting him with her knowledge, playing with her life and Sydney's to get what she wanted. This dance no longer served the same purpose – if any purpose – but they had each fallen into the steps. Habit? Caution? Jack hoped it wasn't just their enjoyment of the dance itself; he was trying to preserve more objectivity than that.

And yet – this was Irina. When she had been playing this game before, she'd been seeking her other daughter. And, Jack now knew, if she had found Nadia, and had learned the truth – she would have murdered Nadia to save Sydney. He tried to imagine loving anyone or anything enough to murder his daughter, and could not.

"Let me guess," he said, though it wasn't entirely a guess. "Kazari Bomani."

Irina raised an eyebrow – impressed, perhaps, or merely annoyed. "You've had the displeasure of his acquaintance?"

"Not personally. But Sydney and Vaughn ran into him several times last year. I know he was working closely with Julian Sark and Lauren Reed, and they worked periodically with Sloane. It's reasonable to assume that their intel would be considerably better than on the fringes of the Rambaldi movement."

"Bomani had The Telling, and so he had Nadia's DNA." Irina leaned against the back of her chair – the first time she'd relaxed even that much in his presence since the day she arrived, when they'd both been too undone for control. "He was able to do much more detailed work than anyone else. As far as I know, he only gave three people that vaccine: himself, Ms. Reed and Mr. Sark. Anyone else would have had to pay a considerable price."

Jack took a moment to accept that the only single human being on earth guaranteed to survive the plagues was Julian Sark. "If Mr. Sark had access to this vaccine, why isn't he profiting from it in Bomani's absence?"

"He was never admitted to the Mozambique lab. I'm pretty sure he doesn't know where it is."

"But you do."

"Yes." She tilted her head to one side, her auburn hair flowing past her shoulder. Even now –wearing ill-fitting men's clothes taken from their own spares – Irina remained beautiful. Desirable. And he was not fool enough to imagine that she didn't know it. The vulnerability he had seen in her months ago was gone now; it was as if the mere sight of Sydney had instantly restored all Irina's power. She burned as brightly now as she ever had – perhaps more so.

He wanted to believe her. He wanted to believe in her. If he could just believe in Irina, then so much of the weight of the past eight months – of the past twenty-five years – would drop away, reduced to nothing. Jack almost couldn't imagine what life would be like without that weight. Just the idea seemed – insubstantial. Unreal.

"If you've had access to this vaccine, but you're so dedicated to ending the Rain of Gold – why haven't you gone there? Disseminated it worldwide?"

"So far as I know, he didn't have much, and there was no mass production or distribution method. You could slowly brew a few doses and administer it via injection." Irina's eyes flashed her impatience. "Within a matter of weeks, that vaccine will be the only commodity of any value anywhere in the world, and its value will be infinite."

"You want us to go after it," Jack said. "To make a grab for power."

"Power is security, Jack. It's always been true, but never more than now. This one move would allow us to consolidate power, and that means we could make sure that our granddaughter –"

The word hung in the air for a moment.

"That our granddaughter is safe."

Jack tried to imagine placing a baby in Irina's arms again; it was strangely easy to do.

Quickly, he said, "In other words, you want me to take our pregnant daughter from the safest place I've been able to devise for her, travel into a world infested with a deadly disease and ridden with economic and military turmoil, and travel to the outposts of one of our worst enemies, all on your say-so."

"The sooner, the better." Irina might have been smirking at him – on the other hand, she might actually be amused.

"I have to think," he said, reaching for his crutch and wobbling up onto it.

"What?" She was definitely amused now. "You can't think straight when you're with me?"

Jack smiled back. "No."

**

He spent the afternoon in front of the computer, supposedly getting the news but actually doing little more than scanning headlines, each of which was bleaker than the rest. If they did leave Antarctica soon, it would be in a ship heavily armored enough to be impressed into service by the Navy.

Irina's story made sense. No fact she'd given failed to check out; a surprising amount of it confirmed some of his own suspicions and intel. He should believe her.

But he wanted to believe her – wanted it too much, so much that Jack knew it clouded his judgment. If he could know that she'd gone to Sloane's bed out of necessity, not by choice – if he could know that the love he'd sensed in her for Sydney was real and true – if he could know that the purpose guiding Irina, even her betrayals, was one he could respect and understand –

Jack wasn't sure he was the kind of man who could believe that any longer.

Late at night, someone rapped on the door; he turned to see Sydney, her hair piled atop her head, and wearing one of the few real maternity tops she had, a soft blue smock. "You've been in here a while," she said. "Should I leave you alone?"

"It's all right. Sit down. What's on your mind?" Jack knew their relationship was better, and was grateful for it, but he was not under the impression that Sydney would come by simply to chat.

"Eric said you guys had a talk this morning."

"Yes."

Sydney seemed to expect him to say something more, though Jack wasn't sure what. After a few seconds, she said, "You didn't give him too hard a time, he said, but – Dad, I know you, and I know how you get, and if you're – planning something, or –"

"I'm not planning anything. I approve."

She gaped at him. "Wait – what?"

Jack wished they could talk about something else. "I think you heard me."

"I did. I just –" Sydney breathed out, obviously stumped. "Every single guy I've ever liked, from Chip Jones in fifth grade all the way to Vaughn – you never thought any of them were good enough for me. But now, you approve of Eric? Not that I don't think you should, it's just – new."

"Weiss isn't good enough for you either," Jack said. "But he has the sense to know it, and to appreciate his good fortune."

"Right." Then she shook her head. "You're a very unusual person. You know that, right?"

Jack had the distinct sense he was being teased. For once, he found, he didn't mind. "I'm glad you came in here. There's something I'd like to discuss with you."

"Are you just trying to change the subject?"

"No," Jack said, which was at least half true. "I'm trying to decide whether or not to move on your mother's intel."

To his surprise, Sydney smiled. "You're asking my opinion?"

"When it comes to your mother, I sometimes fail to be – objective."

"So do I." She considered her next words carefully – the way she often had when she was small. But when she spoke, she wasn't behaving like a child any longer. "Mom has lied to us both. A lot."

"Yes, she has." Jack did not want to attempt a tally.

"But every time she did, there was always a motivation. Even if we don't accept that her motivations are what she says they were – there was a reason that we could see, or at least guess." Sydney's fingers thumped against her belly, "Dad, she came here alone. If she wanted to hurt us, she would have come with a team, like Brill did. Except we wouldn't have seen her coming."

Jack didn't care for that assessment, not least because he suspected it was accurate. "She could have a purpose for wanting to draw us out."

"Like what? This disease needs a cure. I have the cure inside me. If she didn't want what we want – to try and end the Rain of Gold – she couldn't have any goal besides seeing me dead. We know the steps she would have taken if that were what she wanted. She didn't take them."

He'd said all of this to himself and been unable to believe it. But when Sydney said it, everything seemed more believable. More real.

But this was still Irina Derevko.

"I need to think," he said, and Sydney took it as the dismissal it was. She struggled up from the couch to leave him to his thoughts.

On her way out the door, her hand rested on his shoulder, just for a moment. But the touch strengthened him in the hours that followed.

**

The next morning, Jack called a meeting in the common room – all hands. Jenny Lo showed up first, looking badly in need of coffee. Weiss and Sydney arrived together, no longer bothering to hide their relationship from him or anyone else. The last two guards to appear had Irina between them, her hands cuffed.

"Originally, our plans were to take on a handful of other guests after CIA personnel and their families were confirmed clear," Jack said. "Due to the failure of the CIA vaccine, that clearance has been many months in coming. But as of two days ago, Marshall Flinkman, his son and Marcus Dixon's two children were finally confirmed as successfully vaccinated against the Rain of Gold."

Sydney smiled, and Jack saw her squeeze Weiss' hand. He continued, "They are en route to Mountaineer Station as we speak, along with additional guards, also successfully vaccinated. But – instead of taking them into our shelter – we are going to meet their vessel at the coastline and move up into Africa to act on Irina Derevko's intel."

"Just for the record," Weiss said, "I think this is a mistake."

"Your objection is noted." Jack could tell that Weiss was far from the only one dismayed by the news; most of the guards looked skeptical, and even Dr. Lo folded her arms across her chest. But Sydney's chin was raised, her bearing confident. And Irina –

For once in his life, he'd actually managed to surprise Irina Derevko.

Hobbling forward on his crutch, Jack gestured to one of the guards next to Irina. "Remove the cuffs and give her a weapon."

"Agent Bristow?"

"Do it," Jack said. "We're moving on her information. That means we've chosen to trust her. And that means we can't afford to waste our resources on containment efforts we don't need – or to deprive ourselves of any extra hands."

"Thanks," Irina said. The word seemed to mean much more.

Jack didn't know how to respond, but Sydney said it for him: "Let's go."

**


	18. Chapter 18

_Ah, they're shutting down the factory now  
Just when all the bills are due.  
And the fields, they're under lock and key  
Though the rain and the sun come through.  
And springtime starts but then it stops  
In the name of something new,  
And all the senses rise against this,  
Coming back to you._

And they're handing down my sentence now,  
And I know what I must do.  
Another mile of silence while I'm  
Coming back to you.

There are many in your life  
And many still to be,  
Since you are a shining light  
There's many that you'll see.  
But I have to deal with envy  
When you choose the precious few  
Who've left their pride on the other side of  
Coming back to you.

Even in your arms I know  
I'll never get it right,  
Even when you bend to give me  
Comfort in the night.  
I've got to have your word on this  
Or none of it is true,  
And all I've said was just instead of   
Coming back to you.

\--"Coming Back To You," Leonard Cohen

 

IRENICON: Book Nine

 

I.

 

**Los Angeles, California**

 

Sirens echoed from the street below, changing tone and key as they came closer and then went away. In the past two months, Judy Barnett had gone from ignoring sirens (just another fender-bender) to being terrified by them (rioting in the streets) to finding them comforting. At least the police force was still on-duty. She wasn't sure that would be true much longer.

She pushed herself upright in her hospital bed, hoping to sip from her plastic cup of water – but it was empty. The sink was all the way across the room – so far –

In a minute, she decided.

Judy was the only patient remaining in the hospital; when the CIA personnel had pulled out, regrouping in the San Francisco office, they'd planned to take her with them. She'd refused. Spending the rest of her brief life being poked and prodded and experimented on – well, it would all be worth it if she thought it would do one bit of good. It wouldn't.

And so now she was the only person in the hospital – patient, doctor or nurse. Back when she'd felt like walking around, Judy had strolled through the quiet corridors, feeling vaguely as though she were in a Stephen King movie. All the lights were on, though Judy didn't know if that was because the world outside had managed to keep power plants running or because the hospital had generators. Although the remote sat just a few inches from the cup, Judy didn't want to watch television anymore. The news didn't bear watching.

When the CIA personnel pulled out, they'd left her with painkillers, water, food and a syringe of a chemical very much like heroin. The injection would give her a few moments of ecstasy before she died – at least, that was the clinical understanding. Reality might be very different. Judy didn't yet know if she would be brave enough to keep from finding out.

A heavy bang down the hallway made her jump, but she forced herself to be still. Sometimes, with the fever, she heard things. That was all.

But no – there was another bang, and then footsteps – those were definitely footsteps. Judy opened the drawer of her bedside table, took the syringe and hid it beneath the covers. Her heart was thumping wildly, more by instinct than from any rational fear. Nobody coming toward her could do anything worse to her than kill her – and she had the means of her own instant death in hand.

Stay calm, she told herself. It was only a matter of her own pride, but that was more or less all she had left.

Guards appeared in the doorway – not policemen, as she'd hoped for one instant, but private militia. They appeared neither friendly nor hostile as they stared at her. She stared back.

"We've got one," somebody spoke into a headset mike. One what? Judy thought. One psychiatrist? The thought of neurotic people rampaging wildly through the streets, seeking the last therapist in L.A., made her want to break into giggles – but she knew the impulse to be hysteria, and kept her silence.

Finally, after several minutes, the guards parted to let someone through. Judy felt her stomach clench painfully, and she hoped that the fever had finally made her delusional.

"Oh, Judy." Arvin Sloane stood in the doorway, his eyes sad. "Not you. This should never have happened to you."

Then you shouldn't have released the virus, you worthless, useless –

"What are you doing here?" she asked steadily. Seeing Arvin again was absolutely the last thing she had ever wanted; maybe that made it appropriate that it was the last thing that would ever happen to her. It could be a curse or an opportunity, if she thought fast.

"Looking for Jack Bristow, of course." Without asking permission, he came to sit on the side of her bed. Judy kept herself from shuddering as he took her hand in his. "I'm not going to insult your intelligence by lying to you. I learned the CIA facilities had been abandoned, and I wanted to search for any intel I could. I had no idea I'd find you here."

_Psychological counter-operations. Purpose: To destabilize Arvin Sloane, thereby disrupting his plans and rendering him vulnerable to attack. _

Judy looked up at Arvin, trying not to remember the last time they'd been in a bed together. "They left me behind."

"I wouldn't have expected that kind of cruelty. Even from them." He squeezed her hand. "You'll be cared for from now on. That much I can promise you. You're not alone any longer, Judy."

"I'd rather be alone than with you."

_The subject will expect hostility at some point in the process. If such hostility is introduced early, the subject will take satisfaction in overcoming it and believe in his own success. _

Arvin sighed, closing his eyes as if in pain. "I deserve your anger. But there was a time when you had – a different regard for me. I'd like to try and deserve that too, if I can, by taking care of you now. Let me do that for you."

_The subject is thoroughly prepared for counter-operations and will distrust any information conveniently "found" or leaked to him in a neutral sense. However, an explicit direct statement, delivered in the right situation by the right person, could overcome the subject's distrust by playing into his emotional impulses. _

"Taking care of me? When have you ever tried to do anything but use me?" It helped that her hurt was real, Judy told herself. It made her believe what she was saying. "You used me to play a game with Jack Bristow's head. And he wanted to use me – use me to play you –"

Her throat closed up, and she shut her burning eyes, trying to collect herself. "Water," Arvin said, and she hated herself for the small pang of gratitude she felt as the guards' feet shuffled, seeing to her needs.

When she could look at him again, she took the cup of water he held out and drank deeply. "I won't thank you," she murmured over the rim of the cup.

"I understand that." Arvin's eyes were wary. She could see the gears turning, him turning the puzzle inside and out, trying to decide how Jack Bristow could have deceived him. Judy knew the truth about that, but she had no intention of letting Arvin figure it out.

_The subject is obsessed with his personal connection to Rambaldi, a connection he now defines through his relationship with Irina Derevko and the child born from that affair. A threat to that connection would therefore be the single most devastating blow to the subject's psyche. _

Judy whispered, "You still think she's your daughter, don't you?"

Arvin's eyes locked with hers, and she'd never dreamed – never, not at her worst moment of disillusionment – that she could see such anger and hatred there. "Spare me your tricks. I analyzed Nadia's DNA from The Telling years ago. Nadia is – no matter what else happens, she is my daughter. She will always be my daughter."

He would not accuse her of lying if he were utterly certain that she was lying; in that case, he would play along. _The accusation reveals the subject's uncertainty. Also, the stumbling over his daughter's name suggests this relationship has destabilized, thus increasing the vulnerability. _"Derevko had a source in your organization. She doctored the results. The computer analysis you got was nothing but a lie, Arvin. We ran the tests again here, under Jack Bristow's direction. Nadia Santos is his daughter. Not yours."

"Impossible." His face was pale, his expression disdainful. "Only Nadia's father could have used the Hourglass to find her –"

"And Jack was standing right there. He was particularly fond of that part of the plan, making you do the work while the Hourglass revealed her location to him."

"Jack didn't want her. Jack wanted to kill her."

"That's why he found her. Why else, Arvin? Why else would he ever help you? Out of love for Sydney? For you? Think about it. Just – think." Judy closed her eyes again, not entirely feigning her weakness.

The rest was up to Arvin, and the success of her lie now depended on circumstances beyond her knowledge or control. How much had Jack Bristow known about the Rain of Gold? More importantly, how much did Arvin think he knew? If Arvin were still in contact with his daughter – and, despite his emotion in speaking of her, he might well still be – he could double-check within a day and confirm the fact that he was her biological father. For a moment, Judy felt foolish – like a schoolgirl shouting insults at the boy who'd refused to hold her hand.

But then she opened her eyes and saw the tears in his.

"Oh, God," Judy said, trying to make the trembling in her voice sound like regret and not excitement. "I've hurt you. I meant to hurt you, but –"

"Stop." Arvin shook his head and gave her the kind of strained smile that holds back a sob. "You had every right to be angry. And you've – you've done me a service."

_Immunity to the Rain of Gold is strongly determined by genetics. Although no level of affinity guarantees immunity, the closer the person's relation to Nadia Santos, the more likely that person is to be safe. If the subject believes that he is not as safe from the disease as he formerly believed, his behavior will change radically. He will take different risks and operate with little or no planning in an effort to save himself from his own creation. _

"When you get this close to dying – the anger goes away." Judy was out-and-out cheating now, using information from Sydney Bristow's counseling sessions to quote Emily back to Arvin. But she didn't give a damn. "You find yourself remembering the good in things. And – I'm hurting you, and I ought to be – Arvin, those few weeks in Switzerland – it had been so long since anyone treated me like that –"

This was true. Bastard.

"Shhhhh. I'm here now. It's over now. And I'll take care of you as long as I can." He folded her into his arms, and Judy endured the embrace.

There was a time – back when Arvin Sloane was a name on paper, a black-and-white photo, a puzzle for her to enjoy – when she'd thought facing your mistakes, facing the unvarnished truth of your own actions, was the one fundamentally heroic act humans were capable of. But now she thought there were different kinds of heroism, and some of them involved lying like hell.

**

II.

 

As the Snow-Cat rumbled toward the coastline, Sydney tried to sit up once again – and, once again, was guided back down onto the mattress by Eric. "Oh, no, no, pregnant lady. You're taking it easy."

"Sitting up isn't exactly heavy lifting," Sydney protested, but she remained on the mattress. Lying down for a couple days straight wasn't her idea of a good time, but nobody else was particularly enjoying this voyage either. The distance was too great to cover on snowmobiles, and they had equipment, which meant both of the enormous, multi-tracked Snow-Cats had been impressed into service. Sydney, Eric, Jenny, several of the guards and her parents were all bundled into the interior, which was about as luxurious as the flatbed of a pickup truck. The other guards and most of their stuff followed behind.

"Just relax, okay?" Eric brushed her cheek with his fingertips, sending delicious shivers through her body that had nothing to do with the cold. "We're practically there."

If they'd been alone, Sydney would have invited him to lie down beside her on the mattress; then she could have looked on the whole experience as a chance to snuggle. But Dad's presence was highly snuggle-inhibiting. Her father sat right at the very back of the Snow-Cat, staring back the way they'd come. Across the interior sat her mother, doing the exact same thing. Sydney had the distinct impression that they were doing this in large part to keep from looking at each other – and yet they couldn't have failed more completely to ignore one another. Sydney could tell how utterly aware they were, every second. It made her a little nervous.

Casting around for a topic of conversation – they'd worn out most of them long before the end of day one in the Snow-Cat – Sydney said, "So. Africa."

"Yes," Dad replied. Apparently he thought that was sufficient.

"At least I'll be able to get fresh bananas again." She hadn't wanted them nearly as much for the past month or so, but that was beside the point.

"Is that what you've been craving?" Her mother spoke for the first time that day, and though she didn't turn her head, Sydney could hear the smile in her voice.

"Like crazy." Sydney suddenly realized that her mother was the only mother she'd have a chance to discuss her pregnancy with; even Jenny, smart and informed as she was, hadn't given birth herself. "What did you crave?"

"With Nadia, nothing. Just as well, since I was in prison at the time. With you – strawberry milkshakes. The ones from the all-night diner. I don't know if that's because they were the best, or just because they were the ones available at 3 am. Which was always when I wanted them."

"You drove to the diner in the middle of the night?" Sydney grinned.

"Your father did."

Dad didn't turn around, didn't acknowledge Sydney or her mother. But after almost a minute, he said, "I'd just throw a jacket on over my pajamas. The diner staff got to know me, and they'd bring a couple shakes right out to the car."

Sydney couldn't imagine her father behaving the way Eric did: talking to her belly, making up silly names in a pretend effort to move past "Sarah," or claiming that he was having sympathetic morning sickness. But she could absolutely see her father going out at 3 a.m. for milkshakes. He would have treated it like a mission – like a matter of life and death.

"Hey," Jenny interjected. "Mrs. – ah, Ms. Derevko, can I ask how long you were in labor for each birth? It's good clinical history to have."

"Nadia took a long time, but there were other factors at work." When her mother said that – lightly, almost casually -- Sydney tried to imagine giving birth in a hospital bed you were chained to. It revolted her so strongly she almost felt sick. "I was in labor about ten hours with Sydney. Wouldn't you say, Jack?"

The challenge in her mother's voice was unmistakable. But her father kept staring out the back of the Snow-Cat, answering quietly, "Maybe a little less."

Sydney remembered the documents she'd seen at Wittenburg, the form her father had signed promising to observe and report on every single facet of his daughter's life from birth onward. Had they waited for her to be born before they gave it to him? Or had he been in the next room, signing his name, while her mother sweated and pushed?

Now the silence in the Snow-Cat had gone from uncomfortable to excruciating. But Eric gripped her hand and smiled. "Check it out – see that?"

This time, he not only let Sydney sit up but supported her as she looked forward. "What?"

"I believe we've got ourselves a ship."

**

"Ahoy, mateys!" Marshall came hurrying down to the ice pier, awkward in his big boots and parka. "Man, is it good to see you guys."

"Marshall!" Sydney couldn't wave; she was gripping Dad's shoulder with one hand and Eric's with the other as they lowered her from the Snow-Cat. Her mother helped brace her as she stood in the slush. "I can't run to you –"

"I'm here." Marshall wrapped his arms around her, and she hugged him back with all her strength, unable to believe how much she'd missed him. "Hoo, boy. There's a lot more Sydney to hug. Congratulations on the whole mom thing."

"I just wanted to say – we heard about Carrie, and I'm so sorry –"

"Don't. Let's just not – we can talk around that, because when I talk about it, I start, you know, the crying, and then the tears freeze up and it's no good." Marshall looked like he might cry anyway, but then he held out his hand to Eric. "Good to see you too, buddy. Mr. Bristow, hi. And uh, Ms. Derevko, welcome, if welcome is the word –"

"It'll do." Her mother started for the ship first, holding her arm out for Sydney to follow. "Let's get you off the ice."

The ship was a gray hulk in a dull sea, thick with chunks of ice that were only slightly paler than the slate-colored water. Sydney thought every surviving gunman from the CIA's LA field office must have been on board; every few feet on the walkways, another trooper, gun slung over his shoulder, would nod briskly and continue patrolling. She found it disconcerting, and yet comforting. This, too, would be her father's work.

She watched as they recognized her mother, one by one. To a man, they then turned to look at her father, whose face had never been more unreadable.

But it wasn't all military-level grim. Sydney was grateful for the chance to embrace Robin and Stephen, both of whom looked startlingly older; she didn't think it was the eight months as much as the fact that they'd lost their father. Neither of them wanted to talk about Dixon much, and Sydney played along, letting them give her a tour of the ship while Eric got their stuff settled. The sickbay interested her the most, and not only because it was making Jenny swear. "So this is it, huh? I guess asking for a water birth would be a bad idea."

"Asking for two people to be in here at the same time is a bad idea," Jenny groused. "But hey, we can always hang you off the side of the boat. When you push the baby out, just put her in a life preserver and we'll haul her up."

"Sounds great. I'll look around for a swim cap."

"Seriously? I think we'd be better off taking one of the unused cabins and sterilizing it the best we can." Shaking her head, Jenny shut a supply drawer. "That way, you can change your posture when you want, sit up, walk around –"

"Please stop talking about girl stuff." Stephen looked so appalled that Sydney had to laugh.

When she told Eric about the spare-cabin plan, he was less amused. "There's got to be a hospital ship somewhere in the U.S. Navy. Or, hell, any country's navy. Don't tell me your dad can't steal a military vessel, because I'm pretty sure he can. In fact, I bet it wouldn't be the first time."

"We'll be okay here," Sydney said, projecting more confidence than she felt as she stretched out on the bed.

Eric didn't look convinced, but he changed the subject anyway. "All right, milady. The closet space here on the Queen Mary is not all it could be, but we've got your extensive wardrobe of maternity clothes here on this side, right next to your other wardrobe of maternity clothes – i.e., MY clothes, though in another week or two even my emergency post-pizza shirts won't fit you. Fortunately, we only have two pairs of shoes between us, so floor space in the closet is not at a premium."

We're sharing a room, Sydney thought. It surprised her, and yet it shouldn't have; one of the few annoyances of her relationship with Eric was the need to sneak through corridors.   
So moving in together made sense – and she already loved the idea of coming home to Eric at the end of the day.

But even her moment's hesitation must have showed, because Eric's face fell. "I shouldn't have assumed. I should've asked first."

"Eric, it's fine. Really. Better than fine."

He lay down by her side, spooning himself behind her. This was how they slept at night – and, they'd discovered, a good position for making love. Just the feel of his chest against her back was enough to turn her on, by now. When he kissed the nape of her neck, she wondered if they were about to christen this room – but instead he lay there quietly for a couple of minutes. Sydney knew he was gathering his thoughts and gave him time.

Finally, he said, "Ever since you and I – since we've been a couple – I've pretty much acted like – well, of course it's serious. We wouldn't be together if it weren't."

"Of course not." Sydney mustered her strength and rolled over to face him. Her belly brushed against his. "I love you. You know that."

"And I love you too." He touched her cheek. "Like crazy. But still – we kinda went from first date to playing house in about sixty seconds. Even when you love someone, that's really fast."

She considered that, forcing herself to move past her knee-jerk denial and weigh what he was saying. "The baby, the danger we've all been in – it intensifies things. Speeds everything up. But I don't think it makes the way we feel any less real."

Eric propped up on one elbow. "I'm just gonna lay my cards on the table here. Syd, I don't know what our lives are going to be like after this. But I want to be with you. I want to take care of your daughter. I feel like I've cast myself as – well, as the husband. And the dad. I know it's way too early for that, but I'm willing to take my chances. I'm aware of the risks. I just wanted to be sure you were too."

Sydney wondered if that was a proposal, then decided it didn't make a difference. She couldn't see herself separating from Eric, not soon – and, yes, maybe not ever. "We don't have to figure it all out right now," she murmured, cuddling closer to him. "But we don't have to pretend we're not in love when we are."

"Okay." He brought his face down to hers to a kiss. "Sounds like a plan."

**

III.

 

Night had returned. Just a few hours of it so far – but as they moved farther away from Antarctica, the darkness would lengthen. Jack found himself welcoming it as he stood on the deck, watching the white coast of Antarctica fade into the dusk. Darkness would help conceal them.

"I suspect we're being watched."

Jack turned toward the voice and saw Irina standing several feet away from him, her hands on the railing. The wind whipping up from the water tossed her hair, concealing her face. But once he realized the surveillance she was talking about, Jack knew she was smiling.

"The guards all know we're conducting an operation based on the word of a terrorist," he said. "They want to know why they should trust her."

"They want to know why you do."

Jack sighed. "As soon as I have an answer, I'll alert the crew." He already had an answer, but he didn't think it would reassure any of the men on board. Irina ought to have been the first to comprehend – but here she was, sounding him out. Jack wasn't sure if that was sincere curiosity or just another game.

Jack had chosen to trust Irina with Sydney's life, but he wasn't fool enough to believe that he understood her.

"How long did it take you?" Irina said. Her voice was low and deep, almost lost in the waves. "To believe what Katya told you?"

"I knew the letter told the truth immediately. The pattern of events made sense, strategically speaking." There was no need to reveal how he had memorized it, then burned it, watching Irina's handwriting curl and blacken into nothingness.

"I didn't think you'd accept it," Irina admitted. "Katya – I thought she would, with time."

"She believed you immediately too."

Irina's eyes were on him now, her gaze hard, and Jack was now certain of what he'd suspected since Irina's return: She'd never known about his affair with Katya. For some reason, he'd always assumed that she would find out, sooner rather than later, and with no help from him. Perhaps he'd underestimated Katya's ability to keep a secret.

"It was – kind – of Katya. To contact you with such dangerous information."

He knew where this was going, and decided to take the shorter route. "We were lovers at the time."

Her lips pressed together. Jack felt the ship lurch beneath him; the waves grew rougher as they entered deeper seas, and he had to grip the railing for balance.

They were silent for a long while, the silence passing from expected to ominous to bewildering. Irina should either have lashed out or given some sign that she didn't care, but instead she kept staring down at the churning water beneath them. Jack wondered if she was attempting to goad him into speaking first. He might make many mistakes tonight – and perhaps had already begun – but that wouldn't be among them.

Irina finally spoke. "Did you make love to Katya just to hurt me?"

He hadn't known if anything he could do had the power to hurt Irina, not then. But that was beside the point. "Yes. At first."

"And after that?"

"It became something more." What, precisely, Jack still couldn't say; his memories of his brief time with Katya were clouded with the pain and confusion that had defined his life then. But when he remembered her, he did not think of anger or sex. Instead he thought of Katya treating his wound after their Koreatown adventure, the way her fingers had probed deep inside before bandaging him, making him well.

Irina considered that for a moment, then said, "Good." His face must have betrayed his surprise, because she then said, "If you had used Katya and cast her aside, I would have killed you."

More fool him, if he had failed to realize that Irina might think of herself as Katya's sister far more deeply than she thought of herself as his wife.

"Once she knew the truth, she came to me immediately. That's why it ended."

"She should never have told you," Irina said, startling him until she added, "If Katya had stayed with you, she might have survived all of this."

Jack felt himself caught up in Irina's melancholy, their shared sadness. How would it have been different, if Irina had learned the truth while Katya still lived? No point in wondering, he decided. "Should I have told you?"

"Jack Bristow, asking questions about tactics?"

"Not about tactics. About results."

"If you wanted to show me my place –" Irina shrugged. "From the first night I went to bed with Sloane, I knew that if you ever learned the truth, you would never touch me again. Honestly, I thought you'd move on to someone – inconsequential. Harmless. Mostly I'm surprised you had such –"

"Good taste?"

"Courage, to brave another Derevko." Her smile faded as she said, "I did what I had to do. You did what you had to do. We both understand that, now."

"Yes." Never had Jack thought to see Irina so – resigned. It wasn't the kind of sad desperation that had haunted her before; the woman standing beside him was as powerful and as vibrant as she had ever been. But she truly believed what she'd said: She believed their relationship to be over.

"Good night, Jack," she said, stepping into the darker passages of the ship without waiting for his farewell.

**

Over. Maybe it ought to be over. How many years had he wished for this, for his freedom from Irina Derevko? And now she had given it to him, perhaps the best ending he cold have hoped for.

Yet Jack remained at the railing, studying the sea, reflecting upon precisely what she had said to him, and why.

When Irina had spoken so casually of her affair with Sloane, he had felt it like physical pain – and knew that Irina had meant for him to feel it. But she hadn't sunk her claws in for revenge; Jack knew he might be wrong about this, but he suspected her quiet resignation to the affair with Katya was sincere. By reminding him of Sloane, Irina had another purpose in mind. Jack had not learned how Irina schemed to bring him closer to her without also learning how she sometimes tried to push him away. But she'd chosen the wrong weapon this time. Sloane didn't have the power to come between them – not anymore.

Sloane's voice still echoed in Jack's mind, cruel and yet accurate in its desperation: Your schoolboy infatuation with Irina Derevko. Jack did not doubt that Sloane had believed the truth of what he'd said; of course, Sloane had the ability to believe virtually anything he wanted to believe, one of the few luxuries Jack had envied him. The question was whether or not he was going to allow Sloane to make him believe that.

A schoolboy's infatuation would not survive an affair with his best friend – for whatever purpose, noble or profane. Maybe he'd had a schoolboy infatuation with Laura West, thirty-four years ago. But Jack thought it was Irina – the woman herself, not the false name or false history or anything else – he had loved ever since.

He had chosen to trust her when they began this mission. He had given her a gun. But none of that was as potentially dangerous as surrendering himself to her, once again. The smartest move would be silence, watchfulness, a relatively painless end.

As Jack envisioned Irina's profile, sharp and pale against the dark waters, Jack made up his mind. If he was going to make a mistake, it might as well be a spectacular one.

The waters were churning now, and making his way on the tilting deck with his cane was difficult. But he made his way to Irina's cabin easily enough. She answered the first knock, then stared at him; she genuinely hadn't thought he would come. Nor was she immediately assuming the obvious reason that her husband might appear at her bedroom door, late at night. "Yes?"

He said, "You know, we always make the same tactical error."

She studied him, not kindly. She'd pushed him away, and he hadn't gone – Jack knew she was unsure of her bearings now. "What's that?"

Slowly, Jack lifted his hand to trace the curve of her shoulder with his finger. "We underestimate each other."

The invitation surprised her, even more than he'd thought it would. Irina didn't speak or move for long enough that Jack wondered if he was about to be turned down, which would be as much as he deserved for making any assumptions about what Irina might want. But then, Irina closed her eyes and exhaled deeply, her body visibly relaxing. When she brought her face to his, he felt as though she were falling – as though he were catching her.

The kiss lasted a long time, their lips and tongues soft and slow. When the ship rolled in the tide, tilting him back against the doorjamb, she followed and braced his shoulders with her hands. Jack let the crutch clatter down, forgotten, so he could circle her waist with his hands.

When she turned her mouth from his, breathing just a little faster, she whispered, "Are you sure?"

"The world's ending. We don't have much time for doubts."

She had to help him in from the corridor, even lay him upon the bed – a small indignity, but one that Jack became glad for as soon they were finally behind a locked door, finally alone. Irina took the lead, undressing him before she stripped off her own clothes, piece by piece, revealing herself to his hungry gaze; he let her guide him even when he didn't need it, enjoying the unfamiliar sensation of surrendering power. She crawled over him so that her breasts brushed against his cheeks, tempting him to kiss and suck and tease. Just when her breath began to catch in her throat, she would pull away and minister to him again, her tongue darting down the middle of his chest, dipping into his navel, swirling over the tip of his cock.

Jack didn't allow himself to ask for more. He was going to take what she wanted to give.

And to his surprise, more than anything else, Irina seemed to want to kiss. She would go down on him – hot and slow, teasing him until he groaned – or kneel above him so that he could do the same for her, her body trembling as he coaxed her into pleasure with his tongue. Nothing had ever had the power to excite him as much as the sound Irina made when she came – in the back of the throat, soft, so that he almost had to strain to her, but unmistakable and intoxicating.

As she came back down, she sank into his arms once more, kissing him deeply, holding him close. Jack had forgotten that he could spend so much time only kissing – or that this one act, mouth on mouth, could excite him as much as anything else.

Irina didn't stop kissing him as she straddled his body, sliding back and forth over his cock, slick and warm. He let her lower herself on top of him, each of them gasping at the sensation of it – then, the moment he was fully inside her, kissed her again.

They moved together, the dip and swell of the ship always changing their balance, making Irina's hair sway across her back as she tilted her chin upward in delight. Jack brushed his thumbs over her breasts, thrust more deeply, got closer. And then he was shouting out -- mindless, painless, soaring and lost.

Afterward, they lay together in silence for a long time. Irina's head was pillowed on his shoulder – unusual for her, thought Jack found he liked it. He did not know if he had just made a mistake, but if he had, well, it wasn't the first. For now he would not try to quantify or understand her. Whatever consequences arose from this, he would take as they came.

"It's strange," she murmured.

"That could refer to almost anything about our current situation."

"So many people get divorced. They marry the people they love – they choose, and they go to counseling, and they try to be certain. They're so terribly sincere. But they get divorced anyway. They didn't marry for life, even though they meant to." Irina's fingernails trailed slow circles across his chest. "I thought my wedding vows were a lie. I never meant to stay with you. And yet I married you for life, without even knowing."

"I knew," Jack said, and covered her mouth with another kiss before she could contradict him.

**

IV.

 

**Johannesburg, South Africa**

 

"You do not understand." Vaughn kept the Portuguese inflection light; it wasn't one of his stronger accents. "We are booked on the flight to Maputo. You see?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Alvaros. The flight to Maputo's been canceled. You're the only two passengers who've shown up."

Vaughn tried to act as though he couldn't comprehend such a thing, when he understood it very well. Africa was relatively unaffected by the Bloodsight plague – at least, so far – the first signs of the panic they'd seen in Lisbon were already evident. Many of the passengers wore face masks of one kind or another; nobody seemed to be going anywhere new, only trying to get home. The lines at immigration were unusually long – clogged, Vaughn suspected, with people trying to get in from areas already destabilized by the infection.

Fear was doing this, not the disease. But based on what he'd read, Vaughn thought it wouldn't be long before the disease caught up.

"Why does it matter, that we are the only ones who have shown up for the flight?" Vaughn smiled confidently, like a man who'd never been told no in his life. "We have our tickets. We are here. So now we fly to Maputo."

"Mr. Alvaros, the airline will happily refund you –

"No refunds. A plane. Otherwise, you see, my girlfriend will be disappointed. And she is not a woman I like to disappoint."

The ticket agent was suddenly staring at a point past Vaughn's shoulder. Slowly, Vaughn turned, knowing what the man saw but wanting to look anyway.

Nadia strode toward them, parting the airport crowds as though she were walking through a nightclub's beaded curtain. She wore an orange halter dress that covered her breasts only to the point of decency and her legs just a little less than that. The long platinum wig she wore wasn't meant to look like anything but a wig, one that a spoiled Portuguese heiress might wear to show off the warm glow of her beach-tanned skin. And the five-inch heels on her white boots made her as tall as Vaughn – and a lot taller than the ticket agent.

"You see?" Vaughn whispered. "Would you disappoint this woman?"

"Luis?" Nadia's honey-tinted lips formed a pout. "Why are we not boarding? You PROMISED a cruise on the Zambezi."

Vaughn slid his arm around her shoulders, telling himself it was just part of the role-playing. "Soon, Morela. We'll be on the plane soon."

The ticket agent's eyes were fixed on Nadia's chest, but his brain, unfortunately, was still at work. "I'm sorry – the cancellation has already –"

"Then we charter the flight. How much? I will pay whatever the airline wishes to charge." He leaned forward, making the agent a conspirator. "And, of course, tell the flight crew I will compensate each of them for the inconvenience individually. No need for paperwork. I have cash."

"I – I will ask." The ticket agent scurried away. Vaughn could taste the in-flight cocktail already.

Nadia brushed her lips against his cheek, causing a not-entirely-unwelcome flip-flop in his belly. But she was all business as she whispered, "Will we have this much trouble finding ground transport in Mozambique?"

"I doubt it." His hand was at the small of her back, against her bare skin; silky strands of the white wig brushed against his wrist. Forcing himself to concentrate, Vaughn said, "It'll be faster to buy a vehicle than to rent one. If the roads are in good condition, we should get to the right area within a day or so."

"At the very least, I think we'll find proof of what Sloane's done."

"Sounds about right. But I think the CIA knows who's responsible already."

"To hell with the CIA." Nadia's voice was harsher than he'd ever heard it. "I want to give it to journalists. The BBC and the Washington Post and al-Jazeera and the wire services. Everyone. All these frightened, angry people – the ones shouting in the streets – I want them to know who to hate. I don't want there to be one safe inch of ground on the planet where Sloane can walk without people trying to rip him to shreds."

Vaughn stared at her. The idea had appeal – a lot of appeal, actually – but he was shocked that it had come from Nadia. "He's your father."

"What does that matter? Anybody who would do this deserves to have it known."

"I'm not arguing with that. I'm just saying – if he dies, and you're responsible – it might be hard for you."

Nadia studied him carefully. "What if it were your father?"

"It is my father. He may not have masterminded all of this, but he's been involved since before you were born. He kidnapped you when you were a baby."

"Maybe he did me a favor. Otherwise I would have grown up with my mother."

Vaughn started to agree that this wasn't such a great idea – then realized that he'd never reconsidered the question of Irina, not since finding out that she hadn't murdered his father, or that she might have had a good reason for telling some of her lies. Carefully, he said, "I'm not going to pretend I understand what Irina Derevko was up to. Ever. But – I think she would have tried to look out for you."

For a moment, Nadia's expression softened; he thought she might ask him about the mother she'd never known, and he wondered how the hell he was supposed to respond.

But the softness was gone in an instant. She slipped on a pair of mirrored sunglasses, their lenses reflecting sharp angles of light into his eyes. "I can look out for myself. If I need any help, I have you."

"Yeah," Vaughn said. "You do."

**


	19. Chapter 19

V.

 

Irina had never much cared for shipboard life, but after her second week afloat with Sydney and Jack, she was ready to change her mind.

The distrust and hostility she faced from the majority of the crew settled into a quiet watchfulness; Irina cared nothing for their opinions, but the easier tempers made the days more pleasant. As they traveled up the eastern coast of Africa, the weather became warmer, and it wasn't unusual to find almost everyone off-duty at the time walking along the decks, breathing in the fresh air they'd been denied for so long.

Certainly that was the best place to find Sydney.

"The baby wiggling around – it was cute, at first." Sydney stared down mournfully at her belly as they strolled near the ship's prow one day. "Now it's starting to feel like I've got a live anaconda in there."

Irina smiled. "You'll miss the feeling once it's gone."

"I'm not going to miss her sitting on my bladder."

"No. That part you don't miss at all."

Sydney put her hands on the railing, studying her mother's face. Irina didn't dodge the examination, but wondered what it was her daughter thought she would find there. At last Sydney said, "As soon as Sarah's born, we'll have to start running tests on her. I hate that. I feel like – if anybody came at her with a needle, I could kill him. But I know I have to let it happen. Too much depends on it."

"It's always difficult, especially at first. Even those first vaccinations made me want to attack your doctors." Irina knew what Sydney was leading up to, but thought it best to let Sydney ask the question before she answered it.

"But – that dread, that helplessness – is that what you and Dad felt? Knowing that I was going to be studied from the day I was born?"

"I think your father felt that way." Jack had always been older than his years, but when she'd been expecting Sydney, he had seemed young. She had never again seen such doubt and fear in her husband again – or such hope. "I was so confused by my double life at that point that it was hard to even think about the impact of the Rambaldi work. Until I became pregnant with you, I had managed to keep my KGB mission and my life as Laura separate in my mind. After that –"

Irina tried to think of the words, then shrugged and let it go. Sydney already understood.

"If you could do it all over again –"

"What would I change?" She shook her head. "I have too many regrets to ever know. But – what you're really wondering – I would marry your father. I would give birth to you. That I would never change."

Sydney didn't react, save for a tiny smile. But after that, Irina found that her walks and Sydney's were more likely to coincide -- just one more reason Irina found herself enjoying shipboard life.

And then there was Jack.

They'd kept the renewal of their relationship a secret without ever discussing the issue; discussion wasn't necessary. Guards already convinced that Jack's trust in her was motivated by an ill-considered romantic attachment did not need any further support for that belief. Most of their days, they spent apart or as part of a larger group: double-checking weapons, running drills, discussing various strategies for finding and infiltrating Bomani's Mozambique lab.

Most nights, she made her way to his room, into his arms, and the rest of the world fell away.

In a life filled with uncertainties, Irina had always thought Jack was the one thing she'd irrevocably lost. So it never ceased to astonish her that she could lie next to him in bed, feel him holding her again. She knew it could not last for long, but in some ways that sharpened her happiness more than her pain. This – more than the brief affairs they'd had in Panama and then during Sydney's abduction – this was real, and it was more than she had ever thought to have.

"This is new," he said softly, tracing along a thin scar on her upper arm.

"Barbed wire. Cambodia. About a year ago now, I think." That had been a mundane errand, not worth the permanent mark. Most of Irina's scars were ones she bore more proudly. "What's this?"

He shifted to let her study his wrist more carefully. "You've seen that before, or you should have. Electroshock contact points. Anthony Geiger's work, when the SD network fell."

Irina kissed the circles of shiny skin, then let his hand drop. His fingers brushed against her breast. "I obviously haven't been paying enough attention to your body, if there are scars I haven't noticed."

His thumb stroked her nipple, almost absent-mindedly, but she saw him smile as the skin puckered beneath his touch. "We'll have to change that."

She leaned up to kiss him – then froze. If it had been anyone but Jack, she would have told him to listen; he was already alert, having responded to the same cue she did.

And then again – a faint whirring through the air, followed by a rubbery thump. A tracker or a grappling device: Either one meant danger.

Irina was on her feet in an instant, throwing on the bare minimum of clothing she needed. "Go to the galley. Sydney will head there as soon as we sound the alarm."

"Weiss can guard Sydney," Jack whispered, tugging on his sweater. "I'm needed on deck."

"If you can't walk, you can't fight. Accept it and go where you can do some good."

Jack glared at her, but as he reached for his crutch she knew that he had listened. He could take care of Sydney, and of himself. She would take care of their intruders.

Rifle at the ready, she edged out onto the deck. The sounds she'd heard were grappling devices – even now, the first dark figure was making his way over the railing. Irina lunged forward and punched one hard in the throat; the satisfying crunch of cartilage against her knuckles ensured he'd drown quickly after hitting the water. And the splash he made wouldn't draw immediate attention from his comrades, as gunfire would.

Of course, she planned to start shooting very, very soon.

Her back to the hull, Irina began traversing the length of the ship, trying to glimpse the hostile ship. It was running without lights, but she was able to make it out, black on blue in the night. Although she could not tell the specific type, she knew it was a smaller craft, with a crew no larger than four or five. Probably they were all trying to board, and she'd already eliminated one.

Gunfire sprayed out from the other side of the deck; Irina recognized the weapons make as CIA. Good. She wasn't alone, and she didn't have to hide any longer. Running further along the deck, she saw a shape and fired for it blind.

He ducked and spun, dodging her expertly, and before Irina could regain her aim he'd charged her. With a clatter, her gun fell to the deck – but he'd lost his too, so that was fine with her. Irina crouched into a fighting stance – then froze.

"Hello, Laura," said Bill Vaughn. He spoke her false name with too much pleasure. "Long time no see."

The last time she'd seen him, she thought she'd killed him. The last time she'd seen him before that, he had been running away from her with Nadia in his arms. She'd never seen Nadia again.

This man would be Sarah's grandfather, the same as Jack would. She and Bill Vaughn would share a grandchild. The realization sickened her almost to the point of nausea, but Irina remained focused on her opponent.

"We have lot to talk about, you and I." He stepped forward. "Don't you agree?"

She punched out with her right hand, and he blocked the blow, his fist like steel. But even as he did, Irina kicked up and over, slamming her foot into the side of his head with all her strength. Stunned, he stumbled to the side –

\--where Irina caught his head in her hands and, with one vicious twist, snapped his neck.

His body fell to the ground at her feet, and for a moment she could only stare down at it, a limp, twitching thing that no longer remembered what he had done to her or why he deserved his fate. Irina had hoped this moment would be satisfying; instead, it was oddly blank. He might have been any other man she'd killed.

"Deftly done." She turned, shocked to realize that Bill Vaughn had distracted her enough to let someone sneak up behind her. But she was not under attack.

"I was rather tired of his company myself," Julian Sark said. Then he turned his gun and handed it to her, handle first. "Oh, yes. I nearly forgot. I surrender."

**

Irina had never seen Sark so completely at a loss.

"Forgive my astonishment," he said, staring up at Sydney. "But now you've risen from the dead twice and are giving birth to the one who will save all humanity. At this point, you've outstripped the messiahs of most world religions. I admit it; I'm impressed."

"I'm not." Sydney's hair stuck out in various directions, and even in her oversized pajamas, she looked fierce. She paced the length of the galley, obviously considering Sark her personal prisoner – even though Irina, Jack and Weiss were all holding weapons on him. "You led an assault team. Here. To this ship. To try and kill my mother."

Sark raised an eyebrow. "I brought a force commanded by Bill Vaughn into battle with a force that included Irina Derevko. Which one do you think I expected to survive the encounter? Though you may have no good opinion of me, Sydney, I don't believe you think me a fool."

Irina wanted to settle some pragmatic questions first. "How did you track me?"

"The usual. Isotopes in your wine. You weren't checking nearly as carefully as you ought to have been, you know."

Irina remembered her state of mind when she'd believed Sydney dead, but could not recreate that dark, suicidal energy. At least it had served a purpose. "If you're here, you're going to be useful."

Sydney gaped at her; from their corners, Jack and Weiss looked no more enthusiastic. "Mom – this is Sark. He's tried to kill you! He's tried to kill me!"

"Only when he thought you were the Rain of Gold." Irina cocked her head. "When did you learn otherwise?"

"Shortly after Sloane did," Sark replied. "Unfortunately, that was too late to do anything about Nadia."

"Wait." Weiss held up a hand. "Hang on. Sark's Covenant. The Covenant was trying to do the same thing Sloane was doing. They were after this immortality plague too, the whole time."

"You never understood the Covenant's objectives, Mr. Weiss. So you should refrain from further displaying your ignorance now." Sark fixed Weiss in his most withering glare, which in Irina's opinion would have been more effective if Weiss hadn't been the one with the gun. "The Covenant has always been an organization dedicated to maximizing the potential of Milo Rambaldi's work. But from a very early time in its history, it has also been an organization dedicated to preventing the Rain of Gold. Those members who felt differently – Bill Vaughn and Arvin Sloane, for example – split off from our group many years ago. Around the time I was born, actually."

"The Covenant has been trying to STOP the plague?" Sydney was genuinely astonished; Irina couldn't believe they hadn't at least suspected this before. She had not told Jack and Sydney simply because she assumed it was already part of their calculations. "But you've chased after every lead on Rambaldi's work toward eternal life –"

"I have no objection to immortality," Sark replied. "I do have an objection to inheriting a warlord's power on a planet reduced to sub-Third-World standards of living and stability."

Sydney shook her head. "You can't be serious. What did you ever do to stop it? Was kidnapping me part of that plan?"

"Naturally. We wanted to determine whether or not you were the source of the Rain of Gold or the Irenicon. All such tests were inconclusive; therefore you were left alive. I hadn't expected that, I admit – which was why I was so astonished to see you, upon your return." Sark's gaze was almost fond. "We knew that, with samples of your DNA and Rambaldi's, we might be able to synthesize a potential vaccine. And we were making quite strong progress on that project, I should mention, before someone came along and destroyed all our samples with a flamethrower."

Irina saw Sydney's face go pale and quickly interjected, "You didn't have a cure. And you wouldn't have found one. Rambaldi's prophecies are clear. Only the Irenicon can stop the plagues, and that is Sydney herself."

"Who, as it happens, will be providing the cure through her child. May I offer congratulations?"

Sydney ignored him. "Is he telling the truth?"

"As far as the Covenant's purposes? Yes, he is." Irina relaxed her posture, let the gun drop to one side. "I'm not telling you to trust him. That would be a mistake. But he shares our immediate goals, and he has skills we can use."

Sark looked unduly pleased. "The desire to save the world from destruction is not evidence of virtue, Sydney. Nor is hatred of Arvin Sloane. Those are merely proofs of sanity. This is all I claim for myself. Nothing more."

Jack spoke for the first time since Sark had been brought in. "You will have no weapon. You won't be guarded, but there are areas of this ship that will be off-limits to you, and those limits will be obeyed. Any deviation from these rules – any deviation at all – and you will be summarily executed."

"Your generosity is abundant as ever, Mr. Bristow."

Weiss said, "If Yasser Arafat shows up, are we going to offer him a stateroom with a view?" Then he sighed and said, "What the hell. We're trusting her –" meaning Irina herself, "—so after that, I don't think Sark makes much difference."

Sydney's arms were folded above her belly; still, she was unconvinced. "We don't know that he's still acting as a member of the Covenant. For all we know, he's switched allegiances yet again. He could be working for Sloane."

Sark leaned forward, and for the first time, his words were not sardonic but soft. "Have you ever realized how Sloane does his dirty work, Sydney? How he manipulates people into doing his will? He doesn't prey upon their fear or their ambition or their greed. No, Sloane uses people's goodness against them. He looks deep within and finds patriotism, or pride, or loyalty, or hope. Those are his tools. The man's an optimist, really; he's forever searching for the better angels of people's natures, and he generally finds them." Then he smiled. "Now, given all that -- do you think he ever found anything to use against me?"

One corner of Sydney's mouth lifted, but the smile was over before it had begun. "Lock him up. We can put him on his leash tomorrow."

"Splendid." Sark relaxed only slightly, but Irina could see he hadn't been at all confident of surviving the interview until that moment. Weiss shook his head and grabbed Sark's elbow to steer him toward whatever makeshift cell the guards would come up with. Irina pretended to help Jack to his cabin.

As they undressed again, Jack said, "You know I don't like the situation with Sark."

"I know." She lay beside him in the bed, both exhausted and exhilarated from her night's work. "You'll forgive me for this someday."

Jack sighed as he drew her into his arms. "Add it to the list."

**

VI.

**outside Chimolo, Mozambique**

Rambaldi surrounded them.

Nadia could not turn her head without seeing more of it – Rambaldi symbols written in ink, in tapestries, in blood. Everything from computer printouts to yellowing scraps of parchment held snippets of DNA that she had reason to suspect was her own. In one corner, a human heart thumped in a steel shell; Michael called it the DiRegno Heart, and though it was comforting to think that he'd seen it before, she still found the device's parody of life repulsive.

For days now, she and Michael had camped in the laboratory; not only had they not had to trick or fight their way in, but they had found the premises utterly deserted. Spiders had even spun webs in a fine lace between the test tubes. Instead of the battle or subterfuge they'd anticipated, they were able to unpack their bags, change into T-shirts and khakis, and settle in to work. Unfortunately, the ease of taking Bomani's lab for themselves had been countered by the difficulty of interpreting what Bomani had been doing.

"Never took Bantu," Michael muttered for the eightieth time in a week, as he sat at one of the computer terminals. "I could have taken Bantu, but no, I went for Serbo-Croatian. And I haven't been to Serbia or Croatia in a while."

Nadia had only seven languages and felt somewhat self-conscious about it. "There are translation programs. I know they're imperfect –"

"Imperfection won't do. Not if we're trying to figure out something this important."

She hesitated before making her next suggestion. When she'd hinted at it before, Michael hadn't been happy at all. "There are people at the CIA who speak Bantu."

He lifted his head to hers; his brow was sweaty from the tropical heat, as was the hand he slipped into hers. "We'll go to them if we can't think of any other way. But if we do that, this information isn't going to go public. Not ever."

Nadia was not deceived by his false objection. "If they arrest me, I don't care. It doesn't matter, not if they can get some useful information from this."

"We haven't exhausted all our resources yet," Michael insisted. "There are still whole hard drives we haven't hacked into. Bomani spoke English and Portuguese as well as Bantu; if he kept even one file in those languages, that could give us the key we need to the whole thing. We just need to give it a couple more days."

"Three more days. That's all." The deadline was totally arbitrary, but Nadia could stand little more suspense. "We can't wait longer than that. Not for my sake."

Michael held her hand to his chest, and she found herself remembering their kiss in the surf, yet again. As many times as she replayed it in her mind, the thrill of it – of his mouth on her mouth, his hand on her breast, his body pressed against hers – never faded. The moment remained alive inside her, reawakening all the time. "No matter what we do, I'm going to keep you safe. That's not negotiable."

She should have argued with him, but his protectiveness warmed her too much. Instead Nadia smiled down at him, and he smiled up at her –

"What was that?" Michael was on his feet in an instant.

This time Nadia heard it too – the metallic click of hinges, perhaps from one of the outer doors. When she looked back at Michael, his face mirrored her own dismay; though they were fully armed, there were only two of them, and the lab didn't lend itself to easy defense. Still, there was nothing to do but try.

"Stay near the work." It felt strange to give Michael an order, but the gun she took up in her hand was reassuringly familiar. "I'll take the perimeter."

"Be careful." Nadia liked that he didn't say goodbye – that he believed she was coming back.

Carefully she edged out of the main workroom into the ill-lit corridors. Nadia wished they'd thought to leave the lights on; they would have been useful to her now, but instead she had to work with what little late-afternoon light filtered through the jungle underbrush to come through the windows. None of the windows were open or broken – if they were only entering through the one door, then the hostile party wasn't large –

WHAM! Nadia felt the blow to her side before she saw her assailant. She managed to roll through the fall and land on her feet, but pain splintered up through her ribs, and her eyes watered from shock. That made it hard to see anything but a dark shape coming at her.

Dark shapes were enough.

Nadia's hand blocked the next kick, the next punch, and the punch after that. Though she was stumbling backwards, she was able to handle this – able to go for her gun and aim –

The kick slammed into her wrist, sending the gun flying. Nadia was able to duck the punch after that, but then a deafening thud hammered into her ear, and her knees seemed to give out beneath her. Oh, God, Nadia thought, preparing to go for her attacker's knees, not now, not when I have work to do –

"Everyone!" The man's voice ringing from the lab wasn't Michael's – and yet it was familiar. "May I suggest we congregate here for a quick chat?"

Michael's response wasn't loud enough to carry, but the tone alone told Nadia he was cursing. Another slam against her temple rendered her impossibly dizzy; insofar as she could tell anything, she thought she was being dragged across the floor.

The cold slap of the tile against her face restored her to some sense of her surroundings – and fear for her life. Nadia lifted her aching head to look at just how much trouble she was actually in. She was back in the lab, huddled at her attacker's feet. Michael stood not far from where she'd left him, his hands in the air. The man holding him at gunpoint –

Sark.

Nadia had seen him once before, when he had tried to persuade her father to kill her. Her stomach clenched in nauseated dread.

"You came all this way for the vaccine, didn't you, Sark?" Michael was looking at Sark with a depth of hatred Nadia had only seen directed at her father. "Trying to save your own worthless skin?"

"My skin, regardless of its worth, is quite safe. And you should be happier that I've found you," To her astonishment, Sark smiled, his expression almost rueful. "As fate would have it, Mr. Vaughn, I bring glad tidings of great joy."

"Vaughn?" She didn't know the dark-haired, heavyset man who jogged forward now – but Michael did. His eyes lit up as the man said, "Oh, my God. Is it you?"

"Weiss?" Oh. Weiss. She remembered him from Michael's talks with his father; this was one of his best friends. Why was Weiss with Sark? Michael seemed as dazed as she felt. "What the hell? Yeah – yeah, it's me – is it you?"

"Sophomore year. Spring break. Where did we go?" Weiss was still holding his gun on Michael, who started to smile.

"Washington D.C. To tour the monuments. Because we were the biggest fucking geeks on planet earth."

Weiss' gun fell to the ground as he bounded forward, half shoving Sark aside to grab Michael in his arms. Michael hugged him back, clearly ecstatic.

"I'm glad you're back, man." Weiss' voice seemed strangely muffled. But Nadia was already too dazed to wonder why.

"Mr. Vaughn." Sydney's father – Jack Bristow – emerged from the shadows, leaning heavily on a cane. "I wouldn't have thought you'd find this place. I'll have to re-evaluate your capabilities."

"Jack, I'm even glad to see you." Michael smiled, though his smile was sad. Nadia, on the other hand, could only think of her father's admonitions that Jack Bristow would inevitably try to kill her.

Mr. Bristow did not seem like a man in grief. "There's something you should know –"

"Vaughn?"

Nadia turned around and saw – Sydney, her sister, alive and well and hugely pregnant, running forward toward Michael. Her heart rose, then plunged as Sydney gasped, "Vaughn? Is it you?"

Michael's jaw dropped; the shock on his face would almost have been comical, except for the light in his eyes. "Syd – oh, God, Sydney –"

They collided with such force Nadia thought it should have hurt them, but instead they only embraced, so tightly she could see every muscle in Michael's arms. Sydney was sobbing, running her hands over his head, down his neck. "You're okay," she choked out. "You're okay. I never dreamed – Vaughn, you're back, you're back."

"The baby – Sydney, is this – are we --?"

Sydney nodded and slid his hands down to her belly; Michael laughed out loud, then kissed her passionately, blind to everything else in the world.

So, he was going to be a father – to Sydney's child. Nadia hated herself for seeing Michael so transcendently happy and feeling only her own small, petty sense of loss. And yet there were tears stinging her eyes. She blinked hard, trying to drive them away.

Sark put his gun away, shaking his head. Weiss turned his head from them, perhaps to give them some privacy. Mr. Bristow did the same – but as he did, his gaze fell upon Nadia.

Slowly he hobbled toward her, and though he had frightened her before, he did not now. His gaze lifted from Nadia to her attacker, who still stood by her side.

His voice low, Mr. Bristow said, "Irina – this is Nadia."

She looked up. Her own face, decades older and yet more beautiful, stared down at her.

"Nadia," he added, "this is your mother."

**


	20. Chapter 20

_Ah, the silver knives are flashing in the tired old café  
A ghost climbs on the table in a bridal negligee  
She says, "My body is the light, my body is the way"  
I raise my arm against it all and I catch the bride's bouquet_

Too early for the rainbow, too early for the dove  
These are the final days, this is the darkness, this is the flood  
And there is no man or woman who can't be touched  
But you who come between them will be judged

\--"The Gypsy's Wife," Leonard Cohen

 

IRENICON: Book Ten

 

I.

 

**Madison, Wisconsin**

 

"This is the second time I've died."

Will Tippin took a deep breath; the pen was heavy in his hand. He'd left this until too late, maybe. He'd wanted to know what he would have to say, at the very end – but he still needed the strength to say it.

Slowly, he turned over in his hospital bed so that he could let his notepad rest against the mattress. That way, he didn't really have to hold the pen up. That's better, Will thought. Maybe I can do this.

This is the second time I've died, he repeated to himself. The second and the last.

"The first time I died was three years ago, in Los Angeles. I'd been stabbed by someone who wore the face of the woman I loved; she was crying as she did it. I don't know why."

All those nights with Allison Doren – what had been reality? What had been illusion? Will had spent many months asking himself those questions, before realizing – they weren't his questions. They were Allison's to deal with, Allison's to sweat and curse and cry about until dawn. He had simple answers: Everything he'd felt for Francie had been real. Everything he'd done with Allison Doren had been a lie.

"I don't know if she threw me in the bathtub or I fell there. But I definitely remember lying in the bathtub. I could hear my own blood gurgling in the drain. I started thinking about 'Psycho,' about Janet Leigh, and then I wondered what kind of life I'd led, where my last thoughts on earth were going to be about some movie I'd seen. But my life had become more like a movie all the time."

Will knew he shouldn't explain more any more than that; according to the protocols of the Witness Protection Program, he shouldn't have written any of this down at all. He was supposed to have Jonah's history, Jonah's memories, and not his own.

But the Bloodsight had taken hold in the city, and the hospital was in a state of hysteria. He lived in the center of a plastic womb, layer after layer, broached only occasionally by terrified doctors who trembled within their hazmat suits. Anything he'd touched – including this notebook – would undoubtedly be burned within an hour of his death. If anybody did read it, the natural conclusion would be that he was delirious with fever at the time.

Besides, if this wasn't the time to be honest, what was?

"I was a journalist who got thrown out of the profession for telling lies, when what I'd done was find the truth. I was an intelligence analyst who lived in awe of the spies I worked with every day and never noticed the one who was tricking me at night. I never wrote the book I thought was in me. And I'm not sure that I was ever in love."

He'd loved Sydney, he'd thought; at least, he'd loved the image of her in his mind as a sweet, driven girl who needed support and protection. That had all been blown to hell in a nightclub in Paris. Whatever Sydney had been to him after that – friend, lover, employer and co-conspirator – she hadn't been the girl he'd fallen for. That girl had been a figment of his imagination.

Francie, on the other hand – he'd loved Francie. Will just wasn't sure she'd been there to be loved.

"So I ought to feel like a failure. Dying alone – that's failure, isn't it? But I don't feel like that at all."

They'd destroyed all his photographs when they destroyed the rest of the evidence that "Will Tippin" had ever existed. But he remembered the images anyway: playing poker with Charlie and Danny until 3 a.m., finding just the right lede for the story about the migrant workers, stumbling into Jack Bristow's ungainly embrace and knowing he was free and safe –

\--and Sydney. Always Sydney – jogging on the track, laughing over dinner, resting her head on his shoulder as they watched "Some Like It Hot" at the Rialto. His friend. His heroine.

"All of us want to make the world a better place. I don't know if I ever did that. But my friend Sydney – she does that every day. And I helped her do that. Not by being the kind of person she is, but just by being her friend. Just by loving her. I know that helped her go out and fight every day."

Will hadn't seen Sydney in more than a year. He knew he'd never see her again. If this notebook did survive, maybe – just maybe – it would find its way to her.

"I'm not with her now. But I know she's fighting. And I'm still here, loving her. Maybe that helps her fight. Maybe that keeps her safe. I believe in her, and that's why I know –"

As his hand shook, the pen's lines became erratic on the page, but they were still legible.

"—there's still reason to hope."

**

II.

 

Underwear. Socks. One pair of shoes.

Eric packed up fast. Fortunately, he had few possessions; there was no reason for it to take long, for him to linger in the cabin. And Sydney wouldn't be coming back for a while – she and Vaughn had probably talked all the way back from the lab, but no doubt they still had plenty to discuss –

"Eric?" Syd stood in the doorway, staring at his half-full duffel bag on the bed. "What are you doing?"

When he spoke, the words came out evenly. "I'm going to another cabin. I wouldn't expect you to have to move."

"And you weren't even going to talk to me?" She stepped toward him, then hesitated, as if remembering that they couldn't touch anymore. Had she forgotten that? Eric would never be able to forget it. "I realize that this is – confusing, to say the least—"

"That's where you're wrong. See, 'confusing' is the one thing this situation's not." Eric grabbed a handful of T-shirts and crammed them in the duffel. "Everything that happened between us happened because we thought Vaughn was dead. He's not. He still loves you, and you still love him, and I'm not going to get in the way."

"I never thought Vaughn was dead. Not ever. No, I didn't think he was going to come back to us and still be himself –"

"Same difference."

He could read Sydney like a book; she didn't know whether to be stricken or angry. Both emotions played just beneath the surface of her skin – but then Eric couldn't look at her face any longer. As he went back to packing, she stood there silently, maybe just to torment him.

Then she said, "What just happened was – completely overwhelming. I'm not going to apologize for the way I reacted at that moment. But I love you as much as I did yesterday, and Vaughn's return doesn't change that."

Why did she have to say the L-word? It made his throat tighten up, and so he almost had to shout to get the next sentences out. "Well, it changes everything else. What do you want me to do, Syd? Fight Vaughn for you? What good would that do, exactly?"

"You're trying to turn this into something absurd when it's not! I'm so confused right now – the whole world has turned upside down, and I just want to talk to you –"

"Let's cut to the chase. We both know how this story ends: You go back to Vaughn, and the two of you raise your daughter together. That's the way it was always supposed to end, and the only reason it wasn't like that all along is because various bad guys got in the way. That's the ending you guys deserve."

Sydney whispered, "What about the ending you deserve?"

He wanted to say, I'm a guy who let his best friend be taken hostage and then spent the next few months making love to his girlfriend. Eric didn't want to know what kind of ending that guy deserved.

Instead, he said, "Tell Vaughn what you want, when you want. I don't want to lie to him about this, but the when and where, that's your call."

She stretched her arm out to him, and for a moment he could feel her fingertips against his shoulder, the touch burning him with regret and longing. But he grabbed his duffel and barreled out the door before she could say anything else.

On his way to the other side of the ship, he went past Sark, a black shape near the rail, like a crow come for scraps. "Ah, Mr. Weiss. I see change is in the air."

Eric stopped walking for only a second. "If I tied something extremely heavy to your ankles and pushed you overboard, I think the rescue efforts would be half-hearted at best. So keep your mouth shut."

Sark raised an eyebrow, unabashed; he'd won the exchange before he ever spoke. Eric didn't get to win anything, not today.

Once he'd chosen a cabin – as far as he could get from any of the others – Eric flopped down on the bare mattress, not yet able or at least willing to grab some sheets and start settling in. He stared at his duffel bag, still stuffed with his clothing, the lone patch of color in the gray room.

Get your attitude in gear, he told himself. Vaughn's alive. Your best friend is back. He's home, and he's safe. If you can't be glad about that, you are one sorry-ass excuse for a human being.

In that initial moment, when he'd realized that it was Vaughn – Eric had been glad. Dammit, he still was glad. It was just that the very first thing he wanted to tell his best friend about, after all these months, was the amazing woman he'd fallen in love with.

And how he'd lost her.

Why hadn't he known it was too good to be true? Living with Sydney, sleeping by her side, making love to her, expecting to be a father to her child –

\--and he missed that too, the baby he'd hoped to hold in his arms on the day she was born —

\--it had been too good to be true. And he'd known it, really. Eric had told himself, over and over, that Sydney was still learning to love him, that it would be a long time before she was really and truly over Vaughn. He'd been willing to wait, he thought. But he had been waiting for a day that wasn't ever going to come.

Just when the self-pity was getting really thick, and tears were starting to well in his eyes, Eric heard a sharp rap on the door. Quickly, he dried his face with his T-shirt and went to answer it.

Jack Bristow stood there, holding a standard-issue packet of sheets, pillows and a blanket. His demeanor was strictly businesslike. "I take it you'll be needing these."

"Yeah. I mean, thanks. Got it." Eric took the packet from Jack – then immediately realized that the bundle weighed too much by a couple of pounds. Also, it gurgled as it shifted balance.

A couple moments of rummaging revealed a bottle of Glenlivet tucked between the blanket and one of the pillows. When Eric looked back up at Jack, the man's face was still a complete blank.

"I thought you said there was no alcohol aboard ship," Eric said.

"What alcohol?"

If Jack hadn't shut the door, Eric would've had to thank him. He was grateful that he was alone instead, with a quick shot of whisky to brace him for settling into life after Sydney.

**

III.

 

"Universidad de Buenos Aries." Nadia answered so clearly, sitting up so straight in her chair, that she might have been on a job interview. "I studied engineering and literature."

Irina wondered if Nadia expected her to ask about Borges now, or perhaps the workings of an internal combustion engine.

They had spoken only a little on the way back; Nadia was clearly discomfited by the various reunions. Remembering the newly discovered prophecy that one of her daughters would kill the other in combat, Irina had separated them almost immediately. Was it the memory of Nadia's betrayal, her choice to join Sloane, that made their daughters agree so willingly? Irina suspected that, on Sydney's side, Vaughn's return was foremost in her thoughts for now.

Meanwhile, Jack was visibly tense in the Nadia's presence, reminded of what he most wanted to forget.

And as for Irina herself, the baby stolen from her arms, the daughter she'd sought for a quarter of a century sat across from her – and acted as though she were trying not to be afraid of her mother. There had been no embraces, no declarations of family.

Not that Irina had ever really expected any. But she had expected something more dramatic than this: two tired women sitting in a ship's galley, trying to make awkward small talk over sandwiches. Of course, the only alternative to small talk was an uncomfortable subject – but it would have to be raised, sooner or later.

"You've spent most of this last year with Sloane," Irina said. "Your father."

Nadia controlled her reaction to his name well, but Irina could still detect the flinch. Perhaps, in time, Irina could teach her how to better hide her emotions. "He only told me lies."

"He told you some truth, as well." At Nadia's surprise, Irina smiled. "Lies mixed with the truth are always the strongest; he wouldn't have missed the opportunity to brace his illusions with the occasional fact."

"How do I separate them?"

"You ask me, and I tell you."

"How do I know if I can believe you?" Nadia lifted her chin.

"You don't, and you never will. You'll make up your own mind eventually. But if I were you, I'd want both versions of your history."

As Nadia studied her, weighing her questions, Irina heard footsteps in the hallway. Sydney? No, the tread was too heavy. Jack.

He would know that she could hear him; the very attempt to eavesdrop was, in effect, his way of asking permission to listen. If she wanted to stop him, she could. Irina decided not to.

Nadia began at the beginning – conception. "He said you seduced him as part of your work for the KGB."

"Partly. He had lied to me about having solid information regarding Sydney's status as the source of the Rain of Gold." Irina had never forgotten that terrible day – Sloane speaking to her calmly, responsibly, about the fact that some people would want to put her 6-year-old daughter down like a horse with a broken leg. "Believing that, I contacted the KGB. They agreed to my plan to conceive another child; probably they would have ordered me, if I hadn't suggested it. Jack could no longer father children at that point, which made Sloane the – most expedient alternative."

"And that's all it was to you?" Even though Nadia had clearly steeled herself for an unromantic version of events, Irina could tell the truth was ugly to her. "Sloane – he said that you and Mr. Bristow had trouble in your marriage –"

"At that time, we did." Irina remembered it well: They were not verbal fighters, but each was capable of terrible silences that lasted for days. "Nadia, the KGB had already suggested that my assignment should come to an end soon. Even before the order for a second child, I knew I would be leaving within months, or even weeks. So I pushed Jack away. I picked fights, forgot things I should have remembered, turned away from him in bed. The affair with Sloane – it was like drawing a line in the sand. A point of no return, or so I thought. I was trying to make it easier to leave Jack. I failed."

The last two words had not been spoken for Nadia's benefit, but for Jack's. Irina wondered if that was unfair, decided she didn't care if it was or not.

"But he was the one you loved." Nadia did not care about Jack, or his marriage. She wanted to hear some word of softness, of affection, for her own father – to believe that her conception had not been purely a matter of cold necessity. "You – never loved anyone but Jack."

"I never loved Sloane." She cocked her head, wondering how a daughter of hers could retain such a need for sentimentality. "Knowing him as you do now, how could you expect it? If I had cared for him, you'd lose whatever respect you might have for me. And you'd be right."

Nadia nodded, accepting it, but there was still a hesitation about her. This need – this hollowness, right at the center of her daughter – frightened Irina; it was that need that drove Nadia's character, and not her will. Somebody could still manipulate that need, just as Sloane had done. Her daughter could still be taken away.

"I always tried to find you," Irina said, before she could talk herself out of it. "And my sister, Katya, when she was alive. We searched for you all these years."

"To kill me?" Nadia had clearly anticipated saying these words before. "Sloane said you were trying to find me to kill me."

Best to tell the truth. "To prevent the Rain of Gold, I would have killed either of you. To protect the Irenicon, I would have killed anyone who got in my way. I never knew which daughter was which."

"But once you knew, you would have done it."

"Yes."

Nadia sat there for a few moments, considering. Irina wanted to turn from the pain she could see there, but was arrested by the sight of the girl herself. She looked so much like Elena.

At last, Nadia said, "Good." Irina raised an eyebrow, surprised and impressed, as her daughter continued, "If I had been offered a suicide mission to stop the Rain of Gold, I would have taken it. It's worth one life."

"Two lives." When Nadia frowned, Irina explained, "Nobody should outlive her children. I didn't intend to."

Nadia understood her, but it made little difference. Why should it? Irina might have been similarly unmoved, in her situation. She longed for Katya, who had kept the hope of finding Nadia alive for so many years; it seemed that if Katya could be there, making her odd little jokes, unruffled by anything, she might have bridged this terrible gap between mother and daughter.

Compared to this, talking to Sydney again had been easy.

"They told me – they always told me that my mother was dead." Nadia brushed her dark hair from her forehead. "I waited and waited for my father, but I never waited for you. I never thought there was anyone to wait for."

Irina nodded. The words were simple, but they hurt more than she would have thought.

"I'm glad I was wrong." Mere politeness, perhaps, but Nadia accompanied it with a smile that warmed Irina despite herself. "What do I call you?"

"Whatever you like."

"Mama, then." She said it sternly, as if issuing an order. "I called Sloane Papa, and he didn't deserve it. I won't give you less than I gave him."

Why did her relationship with her daughter have to begin as a way of settling a score with Sloane? But wishing for Sloane's shadow to leave them was futile; it would always be there, always. "Thank you."

"I should rest." Nadia stood up, but she rested her hand on Irina's shoulder and squeezed; this time, the smile looked real. "Good night, Mama."

After her daughter's footsteps had faded in the corridor, Irina went to Jack's room. She wasn't sure when he had left, but it didn't really matter, as long as she could find him now.

When she came in, he was sitting on the edge of his bed, unwrapping his ankle. Irina knelt on the floor to help, feeling the soft weave of the bandages between her fingers. "The swelling's finally gone," she said. "You should try to walk without the cane, soon."

"Soon." Jack's fingers traced beneath her jaw, lifting her face to his. "You're troubled."

"It went well. Or better than it could have."

"Yes. But you're still unhappy."

Irina tried to find the words that would capture how she was feeling – not only about Nadia, but also about Sydney, her baby, and Jack himself. At last she said, "Everything is ending where it should have begun."

Jack made no answer, just kissed her. She crawled up onto the mattress to join him, to make love in the swaying of the waves. They were gentle with each other; it had been a long time since she'd given anyone that kind of tenderness in bed or hoped to receive it. Perhaps they'd both been in danger of forgetting that lovemaking could be kindness as well as desperation. Irina had run from this memory too, but she didn't mind being caught by it again.

We can never escape from each other, she thought, moving with him, sweet and slow. Jack was the shape around her silhouette, her jail cell, her home.

Afterward, he put on his robe and insisted that he could go by himself to the galley, without a cane, to get something to drink. He returned with a container of strawberry ice cream from the freezer.

Irina, already wearing one of his undershirts, smiled but said, "I'm not hungry."

"You never are. You've lost too much weight." Limping but steady, Jack rejoined her in bed, opened the container and started to feed her from it.

Obediently, she opened her mouth for a spoonful, lost in memory. Once, Cuvee had asked her if she'd enjoyed anything her CIA husband could do for her in bed. After months of lying, she had given in and spoken one truth: that sometimes Jack liked to feed her afterward – ice cream, or slices of melon, or Thai food from takeout cartons in the fridge. Cuvee, unimaginative as ever, had seized upon this and insisted in playing interminable games: dripping sticky, cold things on her body in an attempt to be erotic, or making her beg for mouthfuls.

In contrast, Jack was quiet and efficient, almost comically businesslike. Had he ever even asked himself why he had this habit? Irina didn't know or care. Her own theory was that he saw it as taking care of her – doing something for her, just after she had given himself to him – but she was content to enjoy it without analyzing it too much.

"Nadia doesn't understand why we have Sark with us," she said, licking a cool smudge of ice cream from the corner of her mouth.

"She isn't the only one. We could invite him to go."

Irina suspected such an invitation might as easily be a shot in the back; Jack wouldn't care one way or the other. "I want to talk to him tomorrow. Leave the rest to me, at least for a while."

Jack didn't like this answer, but he accepted it, dipping the spoon back in the container. "Nadia seems very attached to Vaughn."

"Yes. But I'm not certain Vaughn is as attached to her. We'll have to watch."

"She'd be more comfortable if we gave her something to do," Jack said as Irina's lips closed over the spoon again. "The question is how much the men would –"

A knock broke off his words; even before Jack or Irina could respond, the door swung open. "Dad?"

Irina stared at Sydney, who was staring at her parents, in bed together, with Jack's hand still on the spoon of ice cream in Irina's mouth. She swallowed quickly and glanced over at Jack, who was obviously trying to clutch at some fragment of deniability. Irina smiled a little as he sighed, letting it go.

Sydney's hand seemed to be frozen to the doorknob. "Oh. Okay. I – I should go."

"Sydney, it's all right." Irina suspected she wasn't speaking for both of them. Let Jack speak for himself, if he wanted. "If you need to talk to your father alone –"

"It's not that. It's just –" Sydney breathed out. "Am I just supposed to pretend like it's no big deal that after all this time, you guys are back together?"

Jack looked relieved. "If you could."

"Were you planning on telling me about this?"

Irina and Jack glanced at one another; she didn't know whether to be glad or annoyed that he had no more answer than she did. "Not yet," Jack said at last. "You've had a lot on your mind."

Although Sydney did not appear to be wholly satisfied with this answer, she relaxed slightly. "It's between you guys first of all. I know that."

"What's the matter, Sydney?" Jack sealed up the container of ice cream, setting it out of the way. "Why did you come by?"

"To talk." Irina was surprised to see how much Sydney's response affected Jack; he sat up a little straighter, refocused his attention on her. "I guess – I'd like to talk to you both, actually. Perspective would be good."

Irina patted the foot of the bed; everything felt vaguely familiar now, except for the fact that their daughter was no longer 5 years old and curious about how the cat came to have kittens. As Sydney settled herself on the mattress, her belly now truly ponderous – and, to Irina's practiced eye, somewhat lower – she gave them both an awkward smile. "Seems like old times all around, doesn't it?"

Jack said, "This is about Vaughn, then."

"I'm so glad he's all right," Sydney began, slowly. "I can't even say how much. I mean, seeing him again, knowing that he knew who I was and who he was – Dad, I think that was just about the greatest moment of my life. Realizing that my daughter is going to have a chance to know and love her father – that matters more than anything else."

Although she wanted to speak, Irina kept her silence; Sydney had come to talk to Jack, and it would be better strategy to let him lead their half of the conversation at first.

"I'm relieved he's all right." Jack had never cared for Vaughn, but Irina could tell this much was sincere. "He should be a part of his daughter's life. But you're troubled." After Sydney nodded, he ventured, "About Weiss?"

"Eric just broke everything off. Clean, absolute, done. Part of me says he was right. I mean, I still love Vaughn. I always will. And Eric and I -- we rushed things. We tried not to, but we did it anyway."

"If you're feeling guilty, don't." Jack's face was stern. "Weiss is a grown man. He made his own choices."

"Guilt isn't the issue," Sydney protested. "At least, it's not the main issue."

"You love Vaughn and Weiss both," Irina said, cutting to the chase. It would take Jack far too long to say such a thing out loud, assuming he ever would. "You don't want to have to choose."

"That's exactly NOT it. I'd like to choose, not to have the choice made for me by Eric or Vaughn or anybody else."

"Is Vaughn pressuring you?" Jack asked.

Sydney frowned at him. "No, he's not. He's in his own room, and mostly, so far, we've just talked about the baby. I think he's still in shock. I don't blame him." Her eyes flickered over to Irina. "I told him what you -- what happened to his father. He doesn't blame you. I think – I think he was glad."

"Vaughn must have had a chance to get to know his father very well." The dark joke didn't offend Sydney, but it didn't put her at ease, either.

"I should have realized Bill Vaughn was alive," Jack said. "After I spoke to Brill – I could have second-guessed the information he gave me. And I should have. I put you at unnecessary risk."

Irina touched his arm, excusing him. "He was mine to deal with. He had been for a long time. I shouldn't have failed in the first place."

She could feel the heat of Sydney's glare upon them, and wondered if it was a reaction to that first sign of affection between her parents – the reality of the relationship settling in. But she had guessed wrong.

"Back that up." Sydney sat up straight. "You spoke to Brill before Antarctica?"

"Yes." Jack was suddenly very still in the bed; Irina realized he was recognizing and regretting a mistake. What mistake?

"What information did he give you that you should have second-guessed?"

Jack spoke very evenly, as if giving a report. "At our last interview, back in Los Angeles, he informed me that Vaughn was dead – or, at any rate, made a statement designed to make me believe it. Even then, I had realized he was untrustworthy, but I wasn't critical enough."

Sydney's cheeks had begun to flush. "Let me get this straight. In Los Angeles – months and months ago – you thought you found out Vaughn was dead."

"Yes."

"And you never me about this. Not even after we had that talk about –" Sydney ran one hand through her hair. "I thought we had gotten somewhere. I thought things were changing."

Jack was tense now, angry – but at himself. "I thought it would only hurt you. The intel wasn't confirmed – and, as it turns out, was wrong. This isn't worth turning into an issue."

"Remember what I said earlier? Sometimes I'd like to choose, instead of having people choose for me." The mattress wobbled as Sydney got up and headed for the door. Just before she left, she hesitated before saying, "Good night." She didn't look back.

Irina stroked Jack's arm as he slumped back against the headboard. All he said was, "She doesn't understand."

"Someday," Irina said. It was an empty promise, and they both knew it, but she kissed him to give him something real.

**

IV.

 

"What a splendid morning," Sark said.

Irina joined him, falling beside him step by step on his constitutional around the ship. He felt as perfectly at ease as he could, given the fact that he was both three feet from Irina Derevko and thirty feet from trained guards with rifles who itched to eliminate them both. It was infinitely preferable to concentrate on the sunlight on the Indian Ocean, the fresh breezes in the air, and the welcome thrill of renewed power.

"It's good to see you, you know." He wanted Irina to understand that much, before they had their next conversation. "Especially to see that you're yourself again. I took you for a Gorgon, but you are a Phoenix after all."

"The Phoenix is reborn," Irina said. "I endure. As do you, in your way."

That was surely as much kindness as he could expect to receive from Irina for a long while. Time to get to the point. "How delighted everyone was to see Michael Vaughn again. Although I do not share the sentiment, I would normally say that I understood it."

"You should be relieved. Telling them that I thought Vaughn was dead would have entailed telling them that I thought you'd killed him. Your time aboard this ship would have ended very abruptly."

"But you couldn't tell them that you thought I'd killed him," Sark said. Rarely had he taken so much relish in pointing out the obvious. "Then they would know that you were willing to let me kill him, just to have a crack at Sloane. Not that I think Mr. Bristow would mind greatly. Sydney, on the other hand –"

"Is never to hear of it."

Sark and Irina stared at each other, taking measure. How far could he push her? He decided to play it close – after all, he didn't need much. "Your secret is safe if mine is. However, if you reveal my plans for Mr. Vaughn, at any juncture, I will in turn be forced to reveal your complicity in those plans. Perhaps your renewed relationship with Sydney is strong enough to withstand such a blow, but I'm certain you would prefer to avoid the unpleasantness."

"Vaughn remains unharmed. He's the father of my grandchild. That gives him a right to protection he didn't have before."

"Grandchild," Sark repeated, surprised even as he said it that he spoke with genuine wonder. Irina smiled, just a flash, but it reminded him what it had been like when he was a boy, and they worked together every day. "I'll respect your wishes regarding Mr. Vaughn for the time being. The child is the cure, and the child's welfare therefore comes first."

"You could always cloak pragmatism in nobility," Irina said. "I taught you well."

Sark hesitated before he continued; the next subject was one to be raised carefully. "I take it you will – be here for the birth?"

"I know as much as you do. And we both know more than Jack or Sydney, a state of affairs that will continue."

Good Lord. She hadn't told them – this, of all things. It was among the first secrets Irina had ever revealed to him, back when Rambaldi was just a name and Sark had seen nothing more miraculous than the plans for the Mueller device, mere lines on paper. "You astonish me. I had thought Jack and Sydney's warmth toward you would be occasioned by –"

"We won't speak of it." Generally, Sark didn't remember that Irina Derevko was several centimeters taller than he was. He was remembering it now, because she chose to make him remember. As ever, Sark found that she could intimidate with her physical presence without making a move, simply by willing it to be so. "They know what they need to know about Rambaldi's prophecies. They'll learn the rest in time."

"Until then, the secret remains between us." It was a small concession, really; Sark knew Jack and Sydney would not believe him if he tried to speak of it.

"See that it does." Irina outpaced him on the deck then, walking faster without appearing to exert herself more at all. Sark watched her go, considering.

The key words in his promise had been "for the time being." How long before he could in good conscience – and in safety – kill Michael Vaughn? Months? Weeks?

Days?

Then again, perhaps it was time to reconsider his decision. Though Sark still remembered Lauren with genuine regret, he had to admit her memory was beginning to blur into soft focus. If he had ever loved her, he did no longer.

Aboard this ship, he had protection – uncertain, but as solid as anything could be given the current situation. If he worked with the Bristows, Sark could ensure that the Covenant's work was completed, defeat Arvin Sloane and possibly gain new allies for the impending upheavals of the world order. Even if they stopped the Rain of Gold instantly, the massive global instability that would follow would make powerful allies all the more important. Was Lauren's memory worth risking all of that?

Then Sark thought of his days in CIA captivity. The cold weight of handcuffs around his hands. The sneer on Vaughn's face as he told him about Lauren choking for breath.

This would not be over until he'd made Vaughn shed blood.

Sark looked back out at the ocean, the vengeance in his mind even sharper than before.

**


	21. Chapter 21

V.

 

"I can't get over it," Vaughn said, running his fingers over the curve of Sydney's stomach. "We were being careful –"

"Not that careful," Sydney reminded him. Had he forgotten what those few weeks had been like – their strange isolation from one another, their mutual desperation to pretend the last three years of their lives hadn't happened? She realized that she'd pushed the memories away too, until now.

"Apparently we were predestined not to be careful, if Rambaldi wrote about our daughter hundreds of years ago." Vaughn's face relaxed into a grin, and for a moment he looked like himself again. "Our daughter. I can't get used to saying that."

She guided his hand to a hard curve that she thought was the baby's head. "It's so overwhelming. For me, even, and I've had eight months to get used to the idea. You must just be –"

"Blown away. But in the absolute best way imaginable." He dipped his head down to her belly and kissed the skin, which threatened to turn Sydney into a big pile of mush –

\--until she remembered Eric doing exactly that, only a few nights before.

It was past time for her to tell Vaughn about Eric. But she still didn't know what to say, and had to talk about something else. Anything else.

"So, Nadia. You know my sister better than I do, by now."

Vaughn sat up immediately, stiff, responding to her change of topic even more dramatically than she'd hoped. "Yeah. We got to be friends – you know, the only two sane people in the place. Though I think it took her a while to make sure I was sane again. There were a few months in the beginning where I definitely wasn't."

"How did you know you could trust her?"

"How do you know you can trust anyone, Sydney? You don't. You never do. You take a chance and watch your back." The hard look in his eyes was strangely familiar, though Sydney was taken aback to realize it reminded her of her father.

And thinking about her father brought up other upsetting topics. Sydney put a bright smile on her face and made small talk about the difficulties of creating an appropriate baby bed aboard ship. Talking about the baby was easier; Vaughn acted like himself again, at least like the Vaughn she remembered.

She needed to talk about her mother and father, but she didn't have a chance to do that until later in the afternoon.

"Your parents are back together?" Eric said. "Okay, not that we didn't know this before, but your mom? She can warp men's minds."

"I don't think Dad's warped," Sydney protested, readjusting her position on the chair in Eric's room. The foot of his bed would have been more comfortable, but in some ways also more awkward. "At least, he's not more warped than he already was to start with."

"Which is pretty damn warped." At Sydney's glare, Eric held up his hands. "Sorry. It's just that we can't afford to have the team leader not thinking objectively about the risks. And no matter what else your mom is, Syd, in your heart, you know she's still a risk."

She considered that in silence, and Eric let her, watching her gather her thoughts without hurry or comment. Finally, she said, "In this situation, I don't think objectivity's possible. We're a family, and that's never going to change, even if we all sometimes wish it would. Maybe it's better that everything's out in the open. Pretending to be objective when we aren't – that would be more dangerous than anything else."

"I guess I can buy that," Eric said. "That doesn't mean I'm not going to be watching them both like a hawk. Or some other sharp-watching thing. What is there besides hawks?"

Sydney laughed. "Like a mongoose?"

"That's me. Fear the mongoose." The small smile on his face faded quickly. "What did Vaughn think of all this?"

"I haven't told him yet."

"Well, maybe you should. He's the one you ought to be bringing this stuff to, Syd." Eric got to his feet, obviously searching the room for some task he could perform, something to make Sydney feel unnecessary and unwelcome. "Not me."

She left without another word, not sure whether he was entirely right, given their situation, or whether the whole situation was horribly wrong.

**

A daughter, Vaughn thought as he lay in his bunk late at night. A little girl.

It didn't get any less surreal. He'd often imagined having kids; it was part of the Plan, the amorphously constructed idea of the way his life was supposed to go. Unfortunately, a big part of the good ol' Plan had consisted of Vaughn being the same kind of dad that his own father had been.

Clearly, this section of the Plan needed revising.

Sydney had broken the news of his father's death gently, holding his hands, apologetic for her mother's behavior even though both of them now knew how deeply Irina's action was justified. He'd put on a brave face for her, but in truth, Vaughn had needed her kindness. The words had echoed too strongly back to the first time he'd heard them -- as a boy who had no knowledge, only sorrow and longing and shattered hope.

Vaughn had two fathers: the one he'd believed in when he was young and the one he'd known so briefly in Mexico. His disgust with the latter didn't change his love for the former. And he was beginning to accept that he'd never know just where the line between them could be drawn.

The absolute worst part of it was realizing that the path his father had taken began in the same place Vaughn was standing right now: A child on the way, Rambaldi's ultimate power in the balance, people on both sides willing to do whatever it took to make sure they got their way. Although he would never do such a thing – ever – Vaughn could finally understand how someone might look at his child, or someone else's, and see only a means to power.

What was the difference between him and his father? What made his dad sink into obsession? And what would keep Vaughn from it?

He considered getting out of his bed and going to Sydney's; he knew she wouldn't turn him away, and it would be comforting to sleep by her side, to be able to reach out and touch her. But going to her now – that meant going back to her, for once and for all, and he wasn't ready to do that.

You love her, Vaughn told himself. She's pregnant with your child. What the hell is wrong with you?

The answer, unfortunately, was everything. Vaughn remembered the man he'd been when he fell in love with Sydney – the man she'd loved in return and needed in her life. He wasn't that man anymore, and he never would be again.

So how was he supposed to be any good to Sydney? To their daughter?

Answering this question was not a luxury. It was a necessity, and the sooner he figured it out, the better.

Frustrated, he threw on a jacket and some shoes and went for a walk on the deck. The sea air was cool and sharp with brine, and Vaughn breathed in deep. The scent reminded him of Mexico, of the hours he'd spent with –

Nadia was sitting on the steps to the next deck, a grayish sweater pulled around her shoulders. Vaughn realized she'd seen him a few minutes ago, when he stepped out, but had said nothing. She'd just been watching him. He wondered what it meant that he didn't mind that idea at all.

"It's good to see you," he said.

"You've seen me."

"Across the ship. At meals. We haven't really had any time to talk." Vaughn knew this was dangerous, but it was true: "I've missed you."

She didn't respond in kind, only smiled. But Vaughn knew how isolated Nadia must feel, and he wished he'd come to her before. "Congratulations."

"Thanks." Vaughn grinned. No matter what the hell else was going on, the thought of having a daughter never failed to warm him. "I'm still trying to process it."

"You'll be a wonderful father," Nadia said, and the wistfulness in her voice reminded him of the beach in Mexico, the hotel room where he'd held her, the moment on the flight to Johannesburg when she'd laid her head on his shoulder. He couldn't think about that. He couldn't stop thinking about that.

"I don't know." It was mostly something to say. "I keep wondering if I'm going to be like my own father. It's not exactly promising."

"He must have had some good in him, once." Nadia's conviction was so contrary to the evidence that at first Vaughn wondered if she were indulging in some crackpot rationalization about her own father – was she still that desperate for a daddy's love? But then she said, "If he hadn't been good, at least a little, he couldn't have made you."

Her hand brushed his, and he tangled his fingers with hers for just a moment – not a handshake, not a caress, just an indefinable touch. I have to go, Vaughn thought, and now. "Good night."

"Night." Nadia made no move to stop him, but he could feel her watching as he walked away along the deck.

Vaughn went back to bed, tossing and turning, tangling the sheets around him but not caring. When he dreamed that night, he dreamed of water rushing through a hallway, chasing him down, while Nadia ran ahead, her white wig brilliant in the gloom.

**

VI.

 

Sydney awoke, running her mental check of the room before she ever opened her eyes – temperature right, sound right, apparently still alone. Which was why she began to laugh, embarrassed, when she realized that her mattress was damp. Her spy training had even overridden something as basic as realizing she'd wet the bed.

Okay, kidlet, she thought as she sat up. Pounding my bladder has its limits.

But when she stood up from the bed, more fluid ran down her legs. Sydney's eyes widened; even though Jenny had given her the facts, she still expected her water breaking to be a great gush, like in the movies. This was just leaking. Surely it wasn't --

A band of pressure tightened within her, only slightly harder than the Braxton-Hicks contractions she'd been having for a couple of weeks. A quick trip to the bathroom only added to her suspicions. She pulled on her robe and went straight to Jenny's cabin.

"But I'm not due yet," Sydney protested after Jenny confirmed what she already knew. "It should be another three weeks –"

"Thirty-seven weeks is safe," Jenny said. "You don't need to worry. Obviously, every day we can keep the bambina inside you is good. But her lungs should be fully developed, and the ultrasounds show she's already pretty big. So don't get scared."

"I'm not scared. I'm just – not ready."

Jenny raised an eyebrow. "Better get ready. You're losing amniotic fluid, which means we can't turn back now."

Sydney lay back on the examination table, breathing in deeply. She realized she was afraid – not of labor, but of no longer having her daughter inside her, where Sydney knew she was safe. The hazards of her dangerous life had long since ceased to unnerve her for her own sake, but when she tried to imagine her baby in this world –

\--no, Sydney thought. This is the only world we've got. And I can take care of her. I can and I will.

"Okay, then. Are you going to make me lie here in stirrups all day?"

"God, no. Today and today only, gravity's your friend. Walk around as long as you feel comfortable, but let's make sure somebody's with you. Once the contractions speed up, we'll get you settled into the birthing room. Sound good?"

Sydney managed a smile. "Sounds like a plan."

**

Vaughn was brushing his teeth when he heard the thumping on his door. He spat, wiped his face and yelled, "Come in!" He expected it to be Weiss, mostly because he'd been trying to get some face time with his buddy for days now, mostly with no luck. Surely it was only a matter of time before he'd stop by and they could actually get caught up; besides, he could really use Weiss' perspective right now.

But instead it was Sydney; he gestured to invite her in. It felt stranger than it should have, Sydney walking around in his bedroom while he still had on his robe. He shouldn't feel exposed in front of someone he'd made love to a hundred times, the evidence for which had never been more obvious. "Hey. What's up?"

"Got any plans for the day?"

She looked altogether too pleased with herself. Vaughn had always liked her mischievous side. "I think you have some plans for me."

"Feel like having a baby? Maybe sometime this afternoon?"

"You're serious." Even though she was laughing, she clearly was serious. "Oh, my God."

At least it was normal for expectant fathers to panic. That way, maybe, she didn't know what he was thinking: I'm not ready for this, I can't do this, I was supposed to have a couple more weeks! The real and the unreal had collided again, harder than ever, and faster than he could process it.

"Vaughn, you're white as a sheet. Don't tell me you're going to flip out like Ricky Ricardo."

He laughed despite himself; Sydney always knew what to say. "I'd need witch-doctor makeup to do the Ricky thing, right?"

Then she was in his arms, and he hugged her tight, banishing his fears for another time. This was like the beginning of a mission – you put aside all your misgivings, trusted your partner and just got it done.

"I'm nervous too," she whispered into his shoulder.

"You're going to be okay," he said, willing himself to believe it. "And I'm going to take good care of you."

**

"Are you sure she shouldn't be lying down?" Jack watched Sydney on the deck, letting Robin and Stephen touch her belly. The wind ruffled her hair and she laughed, apparently unconcerned. Vaughn hovered at her elbow, his fingers clasping hers. Thirty-one years before, while driving to the hospital, he'd reached over to hold Irina's hand at every stoplight.

"She's just fine," Dr. Lo assured him, then called to Sydney: "You might want to eat a snack! You won't want to, later, but you could use the energy." Sydney nodded, still busy explaining something to the Dixon children.

Jack went to the galley, trying not to favor his left foot; it was time he put the snowmobile accident behind him. A quick search of the stores revealed very little that seemed palatable at such a time, but some foil-lidded cups of applesauce might do. They fed that sort of thing to people in hospitals. Light and bland. And Sydney had liked applesauce when she was small.

"Agent Bristow?" One of the guards appeared in the galley doorway. "We may have a situation."

Of course we have a situation, Jack thought in annoyance, before realizing the possibilities. "What's happened?"

"We've sighted movement toward the Bomani lab. Maybe two dozen troops, possibly more."

"The roads and the river are all guarded. Take preventative action."

The guard shook his head. "We set up perimeter guards to prevent anyone from finding the lab. Whoever's headed there now already had the location; they stayed off main roads. It's only luck we saw their transport."

"Talk to Julian Sark immediately." Jack's displeasure increased along with his anxiety. Only a handful of people should know where Bomani's lab was; they had been counting on that fact to provide security. They hadn't even removed all the relevant materials; better to leave everything together, Marshall said, until they knew what mattered and what didn't. They'd thought they would have more time. "I want to know who could possibly be there. I also want to know if they know we're here."

"Should we pull up anchor, move out to sea?"

It would be safer, tactically – but Sydney was about to give birth, and Jack did not want to set out into choppy seas during that unless it was utterly necessary. "Not yet, but make ready."

The guard went out to find Sark, leaving Jack to calculate possibilities. His first thought – Arvin Sloane – he immediately dismissed. Sloane knew he was Nadia's father; therefore he thought himself invulnerable to the Rain of Gold and would never put himself at risk by coming to Mozambique. But then who?

And if that force tried to attack the ship – now, with Sydney at her most vulnerable –

Jack's lips pressed into a thin line. If they came here, he would be ready.

When he went back out on deck, the Dixon children were gone and Sydney was leaning against Vaughn's side while Marshall babbled on, Mitchell at his hip. "Wow, you guys, you're way more calm than I was. When Carrie told me she was in labor, I just completely flipped out, like one of those Chuck Jones cartoons, with the top of my head flying off and steam spewing from my ears. Not literally, of course –"

"We remember, Marshall," Vaughn pointed out. "We were sort of waiting on you to guide us through potentially fatal booby traps at the time."

"Oh, yeah, right. Whoops. Faux pas!"

"It's okay," Sydney said, though in Jack's opinion it was no more okay now than it had been at the time. "We both got out safe and sound – and besides, now I understand a little bit better how you were feeling."

Marshall, regaining what for him passed as "composure," added, "Don't forget, I wasn't just getting ready to welcome this big fella here, right, Mitch? I was also getting married, thanks to Eric Weiss, minister of the First Church of Mammals. Hey, that's an idea! We could have a little shipboard wedding, if the First Church of Mammals has authority on, uh, on ships. I'm sure Weiss would do just as great a job as he did for me and Carrie. Probably even better, now that he's had some practice."

Sydney was obviously horrified at this spectacularly bad plan. "Oh. No. No, I – not today. No rush. Right, Vaughn?"

"Right." Vaughn agreed.

"Dad?" Sydney, finally noticing he was there, gave him a smile – apparently her displeasure about Brill was in the past, at least for today. "Did you bring me a snack?"

"Dr. Lo said it was a good idea." As he started to give it to her, she grimaced and grabbed his free hand in hers.

"Contraction," she said through gritted teeth. "Hang on."

Vaughn braced her, and Jack felt her strong grip intensify to the point of pain. He supported as much as he was able, and his eyes locked with Vaughn's. They were both obviously counting the seconds.

Her hand relaxed on his, and she gasped, "Time?"

"Twelve minutes, again," Vaughn said.

"Okay. Okay." Sydney exhaled heavily, then held her hand out. "Now, you had some applesauce, right?"

"Right." Jack wanted to hold her and tell her everything would be all right. But that would be a lie, a greater one than simply not telling her of their danger. Besides, what did he know of her day's work? This experience was one he couldn't guide her through or guard her from.

**

You would think no other woman had given birth in all the history of the world, Sark thought, observing the flurry of activity in the early afternoon when Sydney finally went into her birthing room. Women went through labor in ditches and shacks every day; people as supposedly jaded as Jack Bristow and Irina Derevko ought to be calmer.

His jaw still ached from the rather abrupt "questioning" he'd received, but Sark had been able to protest his innocence in convincing terms. He was astonished that they believed him, but then again, he was rather astonished to be telling the truth in the first place. Who else had Bomani told about the lab? He'd thought nobody beyond their inner circle had ever known.

Whoever it was, Sark hoped they remained ignorant of their small party aboard this ship. His interest in Sydney's child was less sentimental than anyone else's on board, but equally avid. This child was the cure for the Rain of Gold – the completion of the Covenant's work, the successful end to the mission he'd served for so long.

And to Lauren's mission, too, though the baby's parents would be appalled to realize it. Sark smiled at the very thought.

The child would also prove the ruination of many people's plans. The late Bill Vaughn, hopefully, was turning over in his watery grave. Most of all, Sark burned with the hope that he would be able to see Arvin Sloane's face at the moment he learned the plague could be stopped and that the immortality he was willing to destroy civilization to win would never, ever be his.

This isn't just childbirth, Sark thought. This is revenge. Considered in that light, the excitement made a bit more sense.

**

"Don't fight it," Irina said, stroking Sydney's bangs back from her forehead as another contraction ebbed. She sat on the side of the bed, taking a few minutes with her daughter before leaving her to her long work. "Just relax into the contraction, if you can."

"Relax into it. You know, yesterday that wouldn't have made any sense to me. Now it does." Sydney let her head fall back onto the pillow.

"Change positions whenever you can. That helps too." Irina remembered that from the hours she and Jack had waited to go to the hospital; the imbecilic doctor hadn't believed she could tell real from false labor, because it was her first baby.

She hadn't been able to change positions for her second birth. Her arms had been handcuffed to the sides of the bed. At least the pangs had blurred her memory of the event; all she remembered anymore was pain, and loss, and the unending struggle not to blow what little cover she had and cry out for Jack.

Irina knew many women wanted their mothers in the birthing rooms – she had wished for Olga, despite herself, while in a labor room in Virginia – but she felt that Sydney would not be among them. Best to let her be alone with Vaughn, anyway. She stood quickly and said, "We'll be waiting for word."

"Okay," Sydney said. There was a moment's hesitation, and Irina knew that, although Sydney would not ask her to stay, she'd at least considered it. That was enough.

Jack was in his room, pacing. His steps were still uneven. "Any word?" she asked.

"No equipment trucks sighted going toward the lab. Possibly a good sign. But then, we've had to pull back patrols and intensity guard around the ship." He was visibly angry, though only at himself. "We didn't remove enough of the materials, we only began vaccinations on the guards who didn't have bloodlines –"

"The cure is on the way," Irina reminded him. Soon everything in Bomani's lab would be worthless junk; as long as their location remained secure, she considered the lab's discovery immaterial. "Within a couple of hours, the Rain of Gold will be behind us."

Jack sat down heavily on the bed. "Is Sydney all right?"

"She's fine. There's nothing to do now but wait." Irina was aware that Jack hated waiting just as much as she did. Nonetheless, they were both quite good at it.

As she sat beside him, Jack said, "From the day Sydney told me, I've tried to imagine myself as a grandfather. I can't do it yet."

"Soon you won't have to imagine." She wished Katya was around to talk to about this; Katya felt like the person to listen to this confession, not Jack. "It makes me feel old. Old women are grandmothers. Old women don't do the things I do."

"I've felt that too."

Irina tried to picture it. "The next time we lead a raid, we'll be grandparents. The next time we wear disguises, or try to seduce someone for our purposes – the next time we have sex, we'll be grandparents."

"Not if we hurry."

It took a moment to sink in. Irina began laughing just as Jack grabbed her around the waist and towed her down beside him. She could feel his smile when they kissed.

**

Eric had figured he'd have to share hall-pacing duties with Jack and Irina. Instead, he had the space to himself, which was good. That way he didn't have to hide his reactions, pretend like he was just another pal waiting to break out the bubble-gum cigars.

I ought to be with her, he thought, then corrected himself: I want to be with her. It's not the same thing. Get used to it.

But he'd planned for this day, prepared with Sydney. Did Vaughn know about the peaceful scene she was supposed to envision when the contractions got bad? Could he describe the meadow? Eric could; he could remember every inch of that goddamned meadow, down to Bambi by the stream. What about the tennis-ball massage when her lower back started hurting? Eric had persuaded Jack to fly tennis balls to Antarctica for this purpose, and they were probably just sitting in the hold, going to waste.

And, of course, the fact that a hostile force was massing nearby didn't help things at all. Maybe they wouldn't come for the ship – for Sydney and her baby – but maybe they would. Part of him almost wished there would be an attack, so he stop pacing, pick up a machine gun and DO something for her. But that part was the crazy part.

Then he froze as he heard Sydney cry out – not a scream, but still a cry of pain. Eric's gut clenched, and he wanted to kick down that door to go to her, if that was what it took. But he was determined not to lose it.

Sydney's being strong, he thought. I'm being strong for her. It doesn't matter if she knows it or not. That's all I can do for her, and I'm going to do it.

Vaughn's with her now, and he'll take care of her. You know he'll do that, no matter what.

Eric put his hands against the wall and breathed in and out, long and slow.

**

"You sure you don't want something for the pain?" Jenny said. "It's way too late for an epidural, but there's stuff I could give you. This late in the game, it won't have time to affect the baby one way or the other."

"That's okay." Sydney gulped in a couple of breaths, steadying herself after the contraction. "Honestly, it's not nearly as bad as electroshock torture."

Jenny looked distinctly green. "Okay, don't tell me anything else about your life ever."

"Deal."

"You're doing great," Vaughn said softly, dabbing her forehead with a cool, damp rag. "I should've known you'd be perfect at this too."

She smiled over at him. "You know what this reminds me of? Missions back in the SD-6 days, when you were my handler."

"Okay, you're going to have to explain that one."

"You're not exactly on the mission with me, but you're there every step of the way. Your voice is guiding me through it. And I feel totally safe."

He kissed her forehead, and Sydney felt all her old love for him surge up again. Vaughn – her guardian angel.

"Oh, wait. Here we go." Her body tensed again, contracting and expanding all at once, bands of steel curving open inside her –

And then, amid all the pain, there was another sensation – as though she were turning inside out, an inner curve bending in ways she hadn't known it could bend. As much as it hurt, it was the best feeling in the world. The time was near.

**

Nadia had not felt entirely comfortable, in any sense of the word, since the Bristow party had found them in Bomani's lab. Jack Bristow had tried to kill her once, and had not stopped looking at her as though he wished he'd succeeded. Sark, on the other hand, no longer had any desire to kill her; no, he didn't seem to care if she lived or died. Weiss she did not know. Her mother was both fascinating and frightening; Nadia was glad to know her, but her presence could not be considered reassuring. Sydney was here, but thanks to the prophecy, there seemed no guarantee they would ever speak again. Perhaps over the phone, someday. Not now.

She'd only really been able to speak to Michael once – really speak, as if it mattered. The rest of the time, they were formal, too polite for people who had spent the last few months depending wholly on one another. Or who had spent even one minute kissing each other while they stood naked in the sea.

As she leaned forward on the railing, staring down at the water, she heard someone come up next to her. "What?" Sark said. "No family bonding? No special Derevko-woman rituals to welcome another into the fold?"

"We sacrificed the goats this morning," Nadia said. "We'll drink the blood of the living later on. You don't have any plans for this evening, do you?"

"I am utterly charmed." Nadia first thought that was sarcasm, then looked at his face and realized it wasn't.

"Hey, there. Uh, hi." She half-turned to see the funny little man named Marshall strolling up to them. "Mr. Sark, hello there, nice to see you, at least in an unarmed capacity. Ms. Santos, or Nadia, if I can call you Nadia, feel like I know you, since I know all this incredibly personal stuff about you, just by virtue of the job, which has got to feel weird, but you know, you shouldn't feel that way –"

"Hello, Marshall," Nadia said quickly. "Where's Mitchell?"

Apparently she had remembered his child's name correctly. "My main man's taking himself a nap. Forty winks. Robin's watching him." He rubbed his hands together and said, "Speaking of the youngsters, what's the word on our progress with Sydney?"

Nadia began to tell him that there was nothing – and then, from the upper windows, she distinctly heard a cry. At first she thought it was Sydney in pain – she'd heard that, earlier – but no, it was the baby. The cure had been born.

"Congratulations, Aunt Nadia." Sark didn't sound wholly sincere, but he didn't sound wholly sarcastic, either. Marshall started to tear up, and Nadia patted him on the shoulder.

Michael's a father, she thought, and her spirit lifted, buoyed up by an unselfish joy.

**

Vaughn finally let Dr. Lo take his squalling daughter from his hands, though he could have held her for hours. "She's just so beautiful," he said, to everyone and no one at all.

"She looks like a wrinkled tomato," Sydney laughed, but her face was luminous. "And she's beautiful."

"The beauty queen will be back in your arms soon," Dr. Lo promised. "Just gotta check some things out. But listen to those lungs! This kid's gonna knock her Apgars out of the ballpark, wait and see."

He leaned down and kissed Sydney; her skin was still pale and sweaty, but already she looked better. "Are you all right? Is there anything I can get you?"

"I'm good. But go tell Dad and Mom, okay? And – and Eric." She hesitated before adding, "And I'd like to see them all, when I can."

"Okay." Vaughn hated to leave Sydney, but he was bursting to share the news, too. He kissed her once more. "I'll be right back." She squeezed his hand before he walked into the hallway.

Jack and Irina were there, though they both looked disheveled; they must have been crazy with worry. Weiss was facing away from the door, but at the sound of Vaughn's footsteps he turned around, looking about five years older. "Everyone's great," Vaughn said. "Sydney's fine. And the baby – she's perfect."

Irina beamed, a more human expression than Vaughn had ever expected to see on her face. Even that wasn't as surprising as Jack's smile – small though it was, Vaughn wished he had a camera. If they'd been different kinds of people, he might have hugged them; as it was, Vaughn settled for slapping Jack hard on the shoulder.

Jack gripped his hand for just a moment and said, simply, "Congratulations."

"Thanks."

Then he turned to Weiss and threw his arms around his him. Weiss returned the hug, thumping Vaughn on the back. "Congratulations, man. I mean it. You guys deserve this."

"Thanks. I'm glad you're here." Vaughn felt the tears he'd managed to keep back the rest of the day welling up, now that he was finally able to let go.

Weiss stepped back and shook his head. "Don't cry, you big chucklehead. Come on. Tell us the name, okay? Don't leave us in suspense."

Vaughn frowned. "Sarah Frances. That's the name Syd's had all along – I like it. I thought you knew."

"Oh. She stuck with that. All right, then." For some reason, that seemed to knock the wind out of Weiss' sails. Why did he care about the name? But then Weiss just hugged him again, and Vaughn let him do it. Beside him, he was pretty sure Irina was embracing Jack; now, there was a whole story he was going to have to figure out. But later. Today was about Sarah.

His daughter.

He felt as though he hadn't told everyone – then realized he wouldn't feel complete until he'd told Nadia. And that was just one more thing to think about tomorrow, not today. The rest of life was complicated enough. This was Sarah's birthday – simple, and perfect.

**

The roughly sketched map showed lines of defense around the lab, not impregnably strong, but difficult enough. "We're working on tapping into their radio communication, Agent Bristow, but no luck yet."

"Keep trying." The hostile force, whomever might be leading it, had Bomani's lab firmly in control. That was unfortunate, if not particularly important; even though the vaccine was about to be irrelevant, much of the Rambaldi information there was now lost. No matter. After so many hours, they could now be certain that no attempts were being made against the ship – or against Sydney and her child.

His grandchild.

He left the guard to rejoin Irina in the corridor outside Sydney's room, which resulted in a longer wait than he would have thought. Weiss made excuses and left fairly quickly, not that Jack blamed him; Vaughn had gone off to share his happiness with Nadia – a detail Jack observed closely.

Jack's impatience was at its peak when Dr. Lo finally opened the door and said, "I think the princess is ready for some visitors." Irina took his hand as they walked in together.

The portholes were all open, and the cool evening breeze blew through the room. Sydney, propped up on pillows and her hair still damp with sweat, lay in the center of the bed, cradling a small bundle with little pink fists. Her eyes met his, welcoming, and Jack felt unexpectedly humbled by her confidence.

"Seven pounds, six ounces," Dr. Lo pronounced with satisfaction. "Just as well Sarah arrived a little early, for your sake, Sydney. By forty weeks, she would've been a monster."

"Was it very bad?" Jack asked. He still had not forgotten hearing Sydney's last few cries of pain.

"Not really. It's definitely not fun, but – it's worth it." She hesitated, then held up the baby, offering her to his arms. Very carefully, Jack bent over and took Sarah, her tiny form strangely heavy. Despite the small woven stocking cap tugged onto her head, he could see the slopes and angles birth had created. Sarah blinked her unfocused eyes in the weary confusion of a newborn. He remembered that sight like it was yesterday; most of all he remembered this feeling, this sudden and complete love that had you in its grip in an instant. Jack had thought it would be different for a granddaughter, and it was – but the emotion was no less powerful.

Irina hugged Sydney fiercely. "For three generations, my family has been expecting a child to be the answer. You finally gave us that answer, Sydney. It isn't the only reason you should be proud, or even the best reason. But I thought you should know, all the same."

"We should take some blood," Sydney said. Jack knew what those words had cost her; just speaking of hurting the baby, even for the moment it would take to prick her with a needle, made her voice shake. But she was right. "Marshall needs a sample to work with."

"You think umbilical-cord tissue would be useful?" Dr. Lo replied. "We have a special on that today. Going fast."

"Talk to Marshall," Jack ordered. For a few more moments, he just wanted to hold his granddaughter Sarah and pretend that he could keep her safe, that her role in the world would never mean having to hurt her at all. It wasn't true, not any more than it had been with Sydney.

He glanced down and saw Irina's ill-contained eagerness; carefully, he handed the baby to her, watching her broad hands steady the tiny neck. Jack wanted to hug Sydney too, but contented himself with holding her hand. She smiled up at him. In that moment, it felt as though nothing had ever come between them or could. It was an illusion, but Jack let it slip over them, all the same.

**

Two hours later, after Vaughn had returned to Sydney and he and Irina had shared one of the happiest and least coherent conversations of their relationship, Jack made his way to Marshall's makeshift shipboard laboratory. It was too much to expect, even of Marshall, that a cure to the Rain of Gold would already be in place. All the same, he wanted a status report.

Marshall was slumped in front of his computer, watching an animated model of a DNA strand rotating onscreen. Other than that, he didn't appear to be doing anything. "Marshall?" Jack said, intending to interrupt this reverie. "Any word?"

At first, Marshall didn't budge – or even turn to acknowledge Jack. Then he said, "We might have a problem."

"Problem?"

"It's too early to tell. Way, way too early to tell. There's a lot of things I can still do, or try, but – Mr. Bristow – back when I tried the vaccine out in LA, I did a really precise map of the kind of genetic code we'd be looking for. Something really close to Sydney's – I knew that – and the Rain of Gold itself, well, it has these certain markers –"

"Please summarize," Jack said. His discomfort was increasing by the moment.

Marshall breathed out. "Basically, the disease is like a lock. The DNA we'd need to fill in the blanks for a cure – the key – it ought to have certain markers, the notches for the key that would fit that lock. Sarah's DNA doesn't have those markers."

"That's impossible." The prophecies, the signs, all of it led to Sarah. All of it, since their three decades of work began –

"I'm still trying! But you have to understand this." Marshall was unexpectedly firm. "It doesn't look like Sarah provides the cure."

And that meant they had no cure at all.

**


	22. Chapter 22

_To all my architects, let me be traitor  
Now let me say I myself gave the order  
To sleep and to search and to destroy –_

Yes, you who are broken by power,  
You who are absent all day,  
You who are kings for the sake of your children's story,  
The hand of your beggar is burdened down with money;  
The hand of your lover is clay.

Into this furnace I ask you now to venture,  
You whom I cannot betray.

\--"The Old Revolution," Leonard Cohen

 

IRENICON: Book Eleven

 

I.

 

Everything for the next generation, her parents used to say.

Irina had spent her life trying not to take anyone's word on faith – and yet, somehow, she had accepted her parents' words without question. Twenty-five years of looking to her daughters for answers had probably strengthened the lesson as well.

For whatever reason, she had spent the previous two months believing utterly that Sydney's daughter would provide the cure for the Rain of Gold. That the plagues could be stopped before the damage became completely irreparable, that millions or billions of lives could be saved. That the mistake she'd made a quarter-century ago could still be undone. Now she cursed herself for falling prey to such optimism.

Irina, of all of them, ought to have known the cruelty of putting such expectations upon a child. If Sarah did not yet know of their disappointment, Sydney did, and she had spent the first two weeks of her child's life in tears.

"How am I supposed to protect her?" Sydney had whispered last night, as Irina cuddled her granddaughter against her chest. "I can't believe I thought somebody so tiny was going to protect anybody else."

"You'll take care of her. You'll find a way, and we'll help you," Irina had replied, winding one of Sarah's wispy curls of hair around her fingers. To distract Sydney, she'd laughed. "Look at this. I think Sarah has inherited her dadushka's curly hair."

"Poor baby," Jack had said, leaning over Irina's shoulder to rub Sarah's cheek. Sarah had turned toward his fingers, seeking nourishment. Sydney had smiled, and for a moment they had all been a family – but a family lying to themselves and to each other, swaddling the baby's safety in meaningless platitudes that could not hold the Rain of Gold at bay.

Rambaldi's touch destroyed everything. It always had. As she lay in Jack's bed, refusing to get up and face the morning, Irina envisioned the pages of the Rambaldi manuscripts, wondering if perhaps the ink was a kind of poison that seeped through his readers' fingertips.

Enough of this, Irina thought. Sydney needs you.

Exhausted, she stood up, trying to shake the last remnants of sleep from her. Jack had been awake for at least an hour; by now he was probably harrying the unfortunate Marshall, trying to shake forth a cure where there was none. It was long past time for her to go to her daughter.

Her body ached with exhaustion. Little wonder, as she'd hardly slept. She and Jack held each other at night, not dreaming, not resting, merely hanging on.

Irina splashed water on her face and then glanced into the mirror, where her bloodshot eyes stared back.

She stumbled against the bathroom wall, recognizing her body's weariness and discomfort at last. The linoleum on the floor was unnaturally cold against her feet – no, her skin was unnaturally warm. Fever.

So this is the face it wears, Irina thought. The Rain of Gold.

Slowly, she walked back to bed. Irina had prided herself upon having a solution for any problem, no matter what – but they now all knew there was no solution for this. Even going to fetch that obnoxious doctor would involve walking among her family, perhaps infecting them, if she hadn't done so already. Jack, Nadia, Sydney, Sarah – her terror for them swallowed up her own mortal fear. Never before had Irina responded to a crisis as she did now, by swaddling herself in blankets and lying in silence. She would have done something else if there were anything else to do.

The cabin door opened some time later; immediately, Irina called, "Don't come in!"

After a pause, she heard Jack's voice. "Is something wrong?"

Irina turned over and looked at him. Jack's recognition, instantaneous, made his face go white.

"This is impossible. You should be immune."

"So should Katya," Irina said. "Blood ties don't protect us. Nothing protects any of us but the laws of probability. Most of us – most of you will live. But I won't."

Ignoring her warning, Jack was at her side in three steps, his hand firm around her arm. "I don't accept that." He would never accept it, Irina knew, not until he saw her dead body. Perhaps not even then. Her stubborn Jack.

"I'm not giving up yet." It was true; she would fight as long and as hard as she could. But Irina could fight without hope. She'd done it before.

His free hand brushed her forehead, and she watched his expression register the burn of her temperature. Then he pressed his fingers against her neck, checking her pulse. Even these utilitarian touches moved her, but she tried again to push him away. "You should stay out of here. Leave this between me and the doctor. Isolation is the obvious next step."

"You've spent considerable time in close contact with everyone aboard ship. Containment is not an option." That was Jack's way of saying he wouldn't leave her.

But – close contact. She'd held Sarah in her arms just last night. What if she had –

No. Irina would believe in her granddaughter's safety. She had to.

Jack was still at her side, but his expression was distant. She could see him questioning, calculating, trying to devise a plan that would save her despite everything. Another man might have held her and comforted her; Jack would bleed himself dry trying to find a solution. Irina only hoped he would not risk his own health. For him, she tried to put her plight in perspective – revealing her final secret at last. "Rambaldi wrote about me centuries ago. You've known that for a long time. But didn't you ever ask yourself why he never wrote about anything besides the children I'd bear?"

"No." Jack's grip tightened around her arm, as though he were trying to keep her from slipping away.

"I always knew that was the last role I had to play, Jack. Nothing else after that has mattered – not in the grand scheme of things. I always knew that, after the Rain of Gold came to pass, I would die. For a long time I thought it would be by my own hand, or in a fight. I imagined my death in a thousand faces, but I never thought it would be this."

"You knew – you believed you were going to die?" Jack would obviously have been angry with her if he had been less devastated. "Why didn't you say something?"

"What good would it have done? It would only have hurt you, and with Rambaldi – nothing ever changes." She breathed in deeply, trying to absorb the scent of his skin. "My part in Rambaldi's future is over."

**

II.

 

"Don't tell me to stay calm. My mother's dying, not to mention who knows how many other people. This is not a time for calm."

Vaughn crossed "Stay calm" off of the mental list of things to say to Sydney. "We're working on a plan," "This isn't your fault" and "Let's try to stay constructive" had all met similar fates.

He sat on the bed, Sarah dozing on his shoulder. This was the first day in her short life that nobody had poked her repeatedly with a needle and made her cry; his heart hurt to think about how uncomfortable and unwelcoming his daughter must have found the world so far.

Sydney was in far worse shape. Although she was back on her feet, belly down to a smaller swell she covered with one of Weiss' shirts, she'd been frantic ever since Marshall revealed that Sarah didn't provide the key to the cure after all. Vaughn had slept by her side ever since the birth, the better to help her out, but it felt as though Sydney were on another planet altogether. She cried in the night when she thought he didn't hear, and during the days, she wore herself down with worry. The word of Irina's illness had apparently been the last straw.

"I'm the Irenicon, whatever that is," Sydney said, pacing back and forth by the foot of the bed. "But the Irenicon provides the cure to the disease. The disease comes from the Irenicon's sister, who is Nadia, which means unless my mother had some third daughter – oh, God."

"I think Irina would've mentioned that by now," Vaughn interjected. Then he wondered if that was true.

"What about Dad? He went on missions as a young man. What if there's another sister none of us even knows about?"

"Let's face it -- Sloane would know. Syd, your dad's planning to lead a strike team back to Bomani's lab. We can at least get the vaccine for Sarah and the rest of us."

"You heard the new intel – they've got three dozen guys around that lab. A full team is never going to get through. And we don't need a vaccine for a few of us. We need a cure for everybody. And maybe for us too – we've all been exposed already. Even Sarah."

She sat heavily by his side, reaching out to brush the fine curls on Sarah's delicate scalp. The baby jerked once in his arms, but settled back into slumber. Once again, Vaughn felt the surge of helpless love and protectiveness that had defined his two weeks as a father. Sarah was in danger. He would move heaven and earth to end that danger to her, but he didn't know how.

Nothing Jack Bristow had ever done in Sydney's name confused him any longer. Nothing his own father had ever done for him made the slightest bit of sense.

"I just wish we could take her home," Vaughn said. "I wish we could go back to Los Angeles – not the way it is now. The way it used to be."

Sydney nodded, and for a moment he thought she might lean her head against his shoulder. But instead she pulled back, drawing within herself.

Say it now, he thought. Just get it out there. It's the wrong time, but it's the only time you've got, and you need to deal with this.

"Syd, what's wrong?"

"What isn't wrong?"

"I mean – between us." Vaughn met her eyes, daring her to look away. She didn't. "You're not letting me help you. We still haven't talked about – what have we talked about, besides Sarah? Not that there's been a lot of time, but, still. We should be closer than we've ever been. We need each other more than we ever have. But you're a million miles away. And I'm – I know I'm not helping, but –"

"Don't blame yourself," Sydney said. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, a well-remembered gesture of resolution. "You're right. We need to talk."

He took a deep breath. "Okay. Talk to me." Still she hesitated, and he tried to help her out: "I know we were apart for a long time. It takes a while to – get back in synch."

And that was all it was. They were only going through another transition. Dreams of Nadia at night were just that, just dreams.

"We were apart for a long time," Sydney repeated, nodding on the last word. "And during that time – I leaned on Eric. A lot. He gave me the support I needed. He gave me strength."

If Sarah hadn't been sleeping so peacefully in his arms, Vaughn would've shrugged. Of course she'd leaned on Weiss. Vaughn had assumed as much; Weiss wouldn't have it any other way. Why was she even bothering to tell him –

He sat up a little straighter. Everything in the room seemed to have changed in an instant: the scent of the air, the way the light flickered off the water, the expression in Sydney's eyes. For a few seconds, all Vaughn could pay any attention to was the flannel shirt she wore. Weiss' shirt.

"Vaughn –"

"Give me a second." His first impulse, straight from the cave, was to scream at Sydney, then find Weiss and punch him in the face. That wasn't going to help anything. Even though, right this second, it really felt like it would help everything – no. "You and Weiss."

"Yeah." Sydney's eyes were brimming with tears; she'd been crying, off and on, ever since they'd learned that Sarah didn't provide the cure, but this was different, somehow. "We spent so much time together after I returned from Hong Kong; he'd already become my best friend, before anything ever happened to you. I think – I think my feelings for Eric had already started to change. If you hadn't gone missing, and I hadn't gotten pregnant, we might have figured it out sooner, not later. But we figured it out. Or I did, anyway."

Before he was kidnapped? Vaughn felt his body flushing hot and cold, as if he were physically ill. "I – Syd – when did this happen?"

"A couple months ago. Not the emotions, but the – relationship – about two and a half months ago. Please, no matter what else you do, don't be mad at Eric. I'm the one who made the first move, I'm the one who pushed for us to –"

"You don't have to draw me a picture!" Vaughn snapped. Then he took a deep breath, steadying himself. "I'm sorry. But skip the details. Please."

"I didn't mean to – I just – okay. Okay."

It hurt. It physically hurt him, like a band tightening around his chest. "You guys have been – together – all this time, and you never –"

"Nothing has happened since we found you," Sydney promised. "Eric just assumed that I would go back to you, and – I don't know if I assumed that or not – well, we ended it. But Vaughn – I still love him."

"And me?" He couldn't believe he would ever have to ask Sydney this question. "Syd, do you still love me?"

"Yes. Always." A sob escaped her. "I'm just so confused. I love both of you, and because of that, I can't really be with either of you, and this entire situation is so screwed up I can't stand it. Vaughn, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Carefully, Vaughn held Sarah out to Sydney; he didn't know what the hell he was about to do, but he couldn't hold a baby and do it. As soon as Sydney had her, Vaughn stood up and stared out at the sea.

Eric and Sydney. While she was pregnant with his child.

"I never thought you were coming back," she said. "If I'd known –"

"Don't worry. I'm not going to scream at you about 'faith.'" They were silent for a few moments, and he forced himself to say, "I'm sorry. That was out of line."

"No, it wasn't." When he glanced over his shoulder, he could see that Sydney was steadier. "I didn't understand then. I do now. I was wrong."

Yeah, NOW she says she was wrong, something in him sneered. But Vaughn knew he had his own confession to make. Maybe it wasn't as substantial – but it wasn't imaginary, either.

"I know what it's like," Vaughn said at last. "Being alone, and being lonely. Trying to reach out to somebody."

"I realize that's why you married Lauren. I stopped blaming you for that a long time ago. But Eric and I – it's more than that –"

"Please, let me get this out." He could hear her love paean to his best friend later, when his fists weren't already clenched so tightly they hurt. "I'm not talking about Lauren. I'm talking about Nadia."

Her face went pale, and he knew both the pleasure and the pain of having hurt her the way she'd hurt him. Sydney ducked her head, as if checking to make sure Sarah was all right.

"Nothing's really happened between me and Nadia," Vaughn said. Compared to what he'd just heard, one kiss in the surf didn't seem to count. "I'm not her lover; I'm not her boyfriend. I don't think she even knows how I feel. But there's something there, and as long as that's true, I don't get to judge you."

They were quiet for a while. Vaughn looked down at her – Sydney, holding their daughter in her arms – and tried to figure out how the hell they got here. When did everything get so screwed up? When she had an affair with Weiss? When he kissed Nadia? When his dad kidnapped him? When he found out what Lauren really was? When he married Lauren?

No. Nothing had been the same since the day he'd stood in Sydney's burnt-out apartment and thought her dead.

"I love you," he said. "I just wanted to make sure you know that."

"I do. I love you too." Tears streaked her cheeks. Had those saying those words ever made two people so unhappy?

Sarah began to fuss, her high, ragged cry activating something primitive in his brain, something that told him to take care of the baby or else. Sydney, as instantly businesslike as he was, did a quick check. "Not her diaper. She's probably hungry again."

As she started unbuttoning her shirt – Weiss' shirt – Vaughn said, "I'm going to go for a walk on deck, okay? I think that might be a good idea."

"I do too." Sydney made a face as the baby latched on, then said, "We have bigger things to worry about, I know. We have to find a cure for this disease. But if we're going to get through this, we're all going to have to work together. We can't do that with secrets weighing us down."

"That's how we've always done it before," Vaughn said tiredly. "No, I'm relieved you told me. I mean it."

But as he walked out on the deck, gulping in fresh air, he wasn't sure he meant that at all. Ignorance really was bliss, wasn't it? Of course, everyone else on the ship probably knew. Jack, Irina, Dr. Lo, Marshall – fuck, Sark knew and was probably still laughing his ass off about it.

Sydney and Weiss. Weiss and Sydney. His mind kept providing images for him, each one more unwelcome and painful than the last. He started below decks, wanting to crawl down into the very belly of the ship where nobody could find him, where he wouldn't have to hear anything but the creaking of metal and the echoes of water. But somebody else was on the steps.

"Hey, man," Weiss said. He was bringing up something from the galley, just running an errand, as though it were any other day.

Vaughn stood there, unable to speak, unable to keep walking. Weiss half-turned as though to let him by in the narrow stairwell – but then their eyes met. The realization was visible, a slow, dawning dread on his face.

"You will never know how sorry I am." Weiss' voice shook. "Vaughn, I screwed up, and I know it."

"Just stop." He didn't want to hear it. But he couldn't step aside and let Weiss move on.

"This is – I'm just gonna say this one thing, and after that, if you don't ever want to talk to me again, I won't blame you: It's over. It was over the moment we saw you. Sydney loves you, and I'm not going to get in your way."

And that was too much.

"Don't do me any fucking favors," Vaughn growled, pushing past Weiss to disappear in the depths. He didn't hear footsteps moving upward or down, so Weiss was probably just standing there watching him go.

He managed to get all the way to the bottom, in an engine room by himself, before the tears began.

**

III.

 

_Maputo, Mozambique _

 

How long had they all known? How long had they all laughed at him?

Sloane replayed every moment in his mind: Sydney and Jack standing by as he smashed the Hourglass at his – at Jack's feet. Irina sitting at a sidewalk café in Warsaw, sunglasses hiding her eyes. Vaughn pretending to sulk as he walked out to join Nadia on the beach, the better to twist her mind against him.

Nadia – had even Nadia known?

He had looked at her and seen shades of his mother, his father, himself. But now, picturing Nadia's face in his mind, he could see Jack Bristow there: the curve of the forehead, the set of the ears. Sloane had looked into that girl's face for more than the completion of his life's work; he had looked there for love. But it had only been Jack smirking back at him.

At least Judy had possessed the common decency to tell him the truth. Perhaps death wrung honesty from the weak. If so, Sloane intended to make sure that Jack told him the truth at least once more.

"Sir?" one of his guards said. "The transport to Chimolo should be ready within fifteen minutes."

"Very good," Sloane replied. Their journey from strife-torn Los Angeles had been even more difficult than the original infiltration; across the world, borders were tightening, paranoia growing ever more intense. The West blamed Islamic terrorists; the Arabs blamed the Americans and the Jews; the Japanese blamed the Chinese; the North Koreans blamed everyone. It was not exactly as he had planned, but close enough. His status as a fugitive from justice was no longer a great inconvenience – law-enforcement priorities had shifted. No, now it was merely a matter of finding people willing to take him where he wanted to go.

Fortunately, no matter how much priorities shifted, money always held sway.

The guard still hovered there, clearly unwilling to speak further – the bearer of bad tidings, Sloane realized. "What is it? You can tell me."

"We tapped into the security files in Johannesburg, as you'd asked. We found this."

On the small palmtop in the guard's hand, a grainy, black-and-white image flickered. Sloane watched Michael Vaughn ogling a scantily clad Nadia, the two of them flaunting their obvious sexual relationship as they played their game. Revolted and yet fascinated, he watched again. And again. And again.

Nadia, he thought, watching her lips pout for Michael Vaughn. I loved you. I believed in you. Was it so easy to leave me?

At last he said, "Shut it off. Never show it to me again." As the guard clicked the palmtop shut, Sloane added, "Obviously, they had access to some of our information. What's the date stamp on that footage?"

"Three weeks ago."

But if they had been at Bomani's lab, his men would have found them by now. They must have gone there, inoculated Vaughn against the virus, and left once more. So Michael Vaughn, the least worthy of them all, would share in Rambaldi's immortality. It was enough to destroy any belief in justice Sloane had ever possessed.

Then again, that gave him an eternity in which to exact revenge – on Vaughn, on Jack, on Irina, on Nadia herself. And Sloane intended to have that eternity in his grasp.

The one sure way Vaughn and Nadia could have struck at him would have been to destroy the lab – to deny him access to Bomani's vaccine. But they had never known that he would realize he needed it; they'd never imagined that Judy Barnett would tell him the truth before it was too late.

Their mistake would be his good fortune yet.

Carefully, he slipped his face mask on and began walking through the airport, his guards following at a discreet distance. His troubles would soon all be behind him. Immortality lay just ahead.

**

IV.

 

"Why didn't you kill me?" Nadia thought it was as good an icebreaker as any.

If Sark disagreed, he showed no sign. "I meant to. Had I been only slightly more certain of your role in the Rain of Gold, I would have done so." They stood on the deck, looking back toward the Mozambique coast.

"If you'd killed me when we first met, the world would have been spared all of this." Death and devastation on an apocalyptic scale – all of it flowing from her veins.

"Yes. Nothing personal, you understand."

Nothing in Nadia's life seemed to be wholly personal. Just business. "I'm not offended, if that's what you mean. But you'll understand if I'm cautious."

"Naturally."

"I think you'd be disappointed if I didn't think of you as a dangerous man." At that, Sark smiled – he was handsome, despite his coldness -- and the pathways open to her seemed to divide yet again.

First, Nadia could remain on this ship – the second sister, the afterthought, the mistake. She could help watch these children she didn't know, perhaps babysit Sarah from time to time. The mother she'd thought was dead would die, rendering her ties to this group even more uncertain. The sister she'd betrayed for Sloane's sake might forgive her – though they could never be alone together again, because of the prophecy. Jack Bristow might never like her, but he would no longer attempt to hurt her, and in the coming days of chaos, he might be a useful ally. And Michael would always be near: forever out of reach, but perhaps always a friend. If friendship was less than she might have hoped for, it was more than she'd had in a long time.

Second, she could play Sark's game. He was testing her, conversation by conversation, and she understood men well enough to know that he liked what he'd found. Sark's interest in this ship and its inhabitants had faded sharply after Sarah proved not to be the cure he'd sought; soon, he would leave and begin working to consolidate what power he could on the outside. He sought a partner. Of course, Sark had said none of this aloud yet; he hadn't needed to. Nadia could imagine them sealing their pact in bed, a consummation as cold and perfect as a diamond.

Finally, Nadia could return to her father. He would forgive her. She would ask him what purpose – what possible purpose – could ever justify the Rain of Gold.

What could justify her existence?

It wasn't impossible that he might have an answer. Her experience of Rambaldi had given her more than nightmares; she had foreseen transcendence, too. A kind of love and unity and understanding – born of something darker – that could illuminate her from within. Nadia had seen that in her dreams too. Was she a fool not to chase it? For all her father's lies and manipulations, it seemed as though he was the only one who might understand the way.

A dangerous line of thought – but she was unable to entirely erase it, while talking to Sark or for hours afterward.

In the heat of the afternoon, Nadia went back to her cabin, too warm and too miserable to want anything more than a nap. Or so she thought, until she opened the door and found Michael sitting on her bed.

"Hey," he said. His head was in his hands, giving the lie to his casual tone.

"Hi." Nadia hesitated only a moment before closing the door behind her. Now they were alone. "Are you all right?"

"No."

That one word seemed to cost him; his shoulders slumped, and his fingers curled against his temples. Nadia walked nearer, wanting to touch him if it would give him comfort. And yet she sensed a volatility in him – a danger – that held her back. "What's wrong?" she whispered, standing only inches away.

"Sydney had an affair with Weiss." Nadia was astonished; was Michael becoming unstable again? Surely such a thing couldn't be true. But Michael's voice was steady as he continued, "Maybe an affair is the wrong thing to call it. They didn't realize – I wasn't – whatever. They were fucking. That's kind of the key part of the whole thing."

"Oh." What a useful response – but it was all she could manage. It didn't seem to matter. Michael was in place where he couldn't hear anyone or anything beyond his own pain.

"That's not true; that's not the key part. If they'd just been sleeping together – just, I don't know, for comfort or something – who am I kidding? I'd hate it. But Sydney loves him. That kills me, it absolutely kills me, and I don't even know if I have the right to feel like that about it anymore."

"Of course you have the right." She felt a surge of anger on Michael's behalf. How could her sister throw him aside so easily? When they had a child on the way? "Don't apologize for how you feel. Weiss was your best friend, and Sydney was your lover. Why wouldn't you have the right to be angry?"

Michael raised his head at last, his eyes electric and dark. Nadia's pulse leaped as he stared at her. "You know why."

Her desire for him mingled with the slow heat of the afternoon and the swaying of the ship to dizzy her, throw her off-balance. As she brushed her fingers through Michael's hair, he shuddered, then slid his arms around her waist. The side of his head pressed against her belly, and she could feel the tension in his hands against her upper thighs and the small of her back. Nadia bowed just enough to cradle him.

"I came here – I just wanted to talk," Michael said. But if he'd believed that when he walked into her room, Nadia could tell he already knew better.

This is my sister's man, Nadia thought, even if Sydney has pushed him away. He is the father to her child. And he's not himself right now; he's blind with pain, pushing toward you just to get away from his own hurt. All of that should have sobered her up.

Instead, her pulse quickened as she felt the warmth of Michael's breath through the thin cotton of her shirt. "Michael," she whispered, doubly aware that he was sitting on the bed. "What do you want?"

The dam broke, and the words poured out of him, ragged and desperate. "I want to make love to you. I want to take you on the bed, on the floor, against the wall – anyplace, any way, until we can't move or see or even think. Until we drop. Until I don't know that there's anyone in the world but you."

Oh, God. Nadia tried to retain some semblance of calm, even as her hands began to shake.

Then Michael spoke again, more slowly. "But I can't tell how much of what I feel is for you and how much is just – revenge. I don't want to use you, Nadia. But I want you. I want you so much."

It wasn't all revenge. Nadia knew that at least part of what flowed between them now, binding them close, had been born long before Michael even knew Sydney was still alive. But where could they draw the line? And did it have to be drawn with Michael on the other side of her bedroom door?

For months she had desired him, night and day. It would be so easy now. So good.

"I don't know what to do," she confessed. "I know what I want, but I don't know what to do."

"I know. Me either." To her surprise, Michael straightened, dropping his arms away from her waist. "What I want you to do -- that can't be what matters, to either of us. It has to be about what you want to do."

He looked up at her, the expression in his eyes different than any she had ever seen there before. Vaughn wanted comfort, shelter, escape. She could give all of that to him. She wanted to give herself to him. And it didn't matter that this was weakness, that he was vulnerable and she would be taking advantage of him. Later, later Nadia would think about those things, but at this moment –

If you want him, she thought to herself, take him. If you love him, you must stop this now.

"You have to go," she whispered, pulling her hands away. "Please, Michael, go."

Michael grimaced – not in loss, Nadia knew, but in recognition of his own behavior. "I'm such a son of a bitch. Nadia, please, forgive me."

"You're upset. Anybody would be."

"You're too good at making excuses for me." He couldn't meet her eyes anymore. "You ought to just haul off and smack me one."

Did he not realize that any touch between them – even violence, maybe especially violence – would send them spiraling back over the edge? "I didn't realize being understanding was a problem."

If only she were better at knowing what she wanted, instead of trying to be who everyone else wanted her to be.

"I'm going to get the hell out of here before I dig a deeper hole for myself." Michael was at the door in an instant, opening it before he dared to speak. "I'm sorry. I'm so fucked-up."

If you weren't, Michael, you wouldn't like me. Nadia tried to smile. "We've made the right decision. Now go."

He left. The room seemed emptier than it ever had before. Nadia wondered if she would ever be given a choice in her life more substantial than wondering who should have the honor of using her.

**


	23. Chapter 23

V.

 

Sydney lay on her side, watching her daughter sleep.

Sarah dozed in the very center of the bed – not a large bed, not at sea, but her tiny form seemed even smaller when surrounded by an expanse of white. The sunset light fell across the sheets, illuminating her few wispy curls in gold and pink.

She doesn't understand any of this, Sydney thought. None of the forces around her – none of the people who would kill her just in case she's the cure, or kill her because she's not the cure, or kill her to hurt me, or Vaughn, or Mom and Dad. She's completely innocent. I wish she could stay completely innocent forever.

But that innocence – and perhaps Sarah's survival – could only come at a price.

Until she'd talked to Vaughn that morning, Sydney hadn't realized how much she was still expecting a solution. As if somehow, despite all the complexity of their situation, she would be able to look at things from a different angle and shake them all into place: Vaughn and Eric, her mother, the Rain of Gold.

But Vaughn's raw pain and confusion – the recognition that he was as lost as she was, if not more so – made Sydney realize that she couldn't fix everything. Possibly, she couldn't fix anything. But she had to focus on what mattered most, and on what she could do. When she did that, everything had become perfectly clear.

Sydney had already done her crying. The only question now was whether or not she was in control. Darkness would fall soon, and she had things to do.

Carefully, Sydney gathered the sleeping Sarah up in her arms; the baby's fists opened, then closed, but she gave no other sign of waking. With Sarah tucked in one arm, she used the other to collect the bag of needful things (diapers, mostly) she'd packed earlier. Although she and Vaughn hadn't shared a single word since his abrupt departure, she knew that by now he would be back in the cabin he'd been using before Sarah was born.

A soft rap on the door confirmed her suspicions; Vaughn opened it, his face stark, with dark circles under his eyes that looked like bruises. But his voice was gentle as he said, "Is Sarah okay?"

"She's great. She's sleeping. But – you know that walk around the deck you took earlier? I could use one of those myself."

Vaughn nodded and held out his hands. And this was the hardest – actually handing her over – but in a moment her weight, so heavy and sweet, was gone. He cradled Sarah next to him, his movements sure, and the darkness briefly left him as he made soft shushing noises. Everything she'd ever loved about Vaughn – every reason she'd ever wanted him – was alive in that moment.

"Take as long as you want," he said. "Or at least until the princess gets hungry again. I can't do much about that."

Formula was on hand, but Vaughn would discover that soon enough. Sydney liked that he would at least try to make a joke. "Are you – how are you doing?"

"Wish I knew." She was so proud of him for managing to smile as he said it.

Sydney touched his cheek, just once. "Thanks, Vaughn."

"You don't have to thank me for taking care of Sarah."

"That's not what I meant. Just – thank you." Before she could say anything else, she backed into the corridor, giving father and daughter a quick wave. The door shut behind her as she hurried away.

Control. This was no time to lose control, not now, before she'd even begun.

Next she went to her father's room – no, her parents' room. She found her father stepping out into the hallway just as she walked up. He carried a tray of eggs and toast, mostly untouched. "Dad. How is she?"

"Sydney." Her father's mind seemed to be a very great distance away, or perhaps only on the other side of the door. His gaze focused upon her very slowly, as though he had to work to take her in. "Your mother's sleeping. She's – she's comfortable."

He took a couple of halting steps toward the galley before Sydney had the presence of mind to take the tray from him. "I've got it. It's okay." Her father nodded, numb to the small favor, as weary as she'd ever seen him. They walked slowly toward the galley together, Sydney measuring her pace to match his, mindful of the limp he hadn't yet completely shaken.

"Your mother says she doesn't want to see you. She's lying. She's afraid of exposing you. After the team goes back to Bomani's lab, and we can have you inoculated – she'll change her mind."

"How long?"

"Another couple of days, no more." He rubbed his forehead, as if trying to wake himself up. "I can talk to the tactical team tonight. Don't worry. It's taken care of."

He did not ask her to be a part of the team, nor even to help plan it; Sydney wasn't offended by this anymore, not now that she understood. Her father's world was a binary one: ally or enemy, helpful or harmful, protector or protected.

How many things had they failed to say to each other? What had Sydney still – even now – left unspoken? She chose her words carefully; she didn't want to alarm him. "We never talked about you and Mom."

"That's not necessary." His bearing immediately became stiff, almost formal.

"I think it is." Sydney went in the galley after him, even though she was the one holding the tray. "All the objections I might've had – they don't matter now. I just wanted to say that I'm glad the two of you got some time. That you're together, and while she's – that you can take care of her while she's –"

"Sydney." He half-turned from her as she set down the tray – not rejecting her, but withdrawing his face back into the shadows, where she couldn't really see. "Don't."

Even now, he couldn't talk about how he felt. It would be cruel to press him. "Go back to Mom." With any luck, he'd attribute her emotional reactions to fear for her mother. That was at least part of the reason. He might not think about it too deeply until later. "She needs you. Tell her – tell her I asked about her, okay? You can talk to the strike team in the morning."

"I'll talk to them tonight," he said, refocusing on the tactical meeting immediately – just as Sydney had planned. "But I'll be there when your mother wakes up."

"Okay." She smiled at him, heartened to see him smile back. Her father looked so much older now, so tired, so worn. How would he look when –

No, she wouldn't think about that. Sydney squeezed his hand, just for a moment, then set off for the very last of the indulgences she planned to allow herself that night.

As soon as her fist rapped against Eric's door, it swung open; he'd been expecting someone – but not her. Although she'd suspected as much, it only took a glance at him to know for certain. "You talked to Vaughn."

"I think 'talked to' sounds like an actual conversation took place." Eric relaxed slightly; obviously, he'd been expecting Vaughn, and more confrontation. "I know he knows. I know he's mad. That's about where we are."

Eric's body language, unnaturally rigid, told her clearly that he wanted her to go; instead, she walked into the room, ignoring his discomfort. "I probably should have warned you before I said anything."

"I knew you were going to sooner or later. You had to choose a good moment. And if that was the result of telling him at a good moment, believe me, I'm really glad you didn't pick a bad one."

He leaned against the wall farthest from her, arms crossed against his chest. As she studied him, Sydney realized that this posture was familiar to her: Eric had behaved like this occasionally back in Los Angeles, when he was still just her best friend and she was still Vaughn's girl. This was the way Eric looked when he wanted something he couldn't have. How long had she been blind to his love for her?

And how could she ever have been blind to him? The way he looked now – his strong arms and shoulders, his dark eyes, the expression in his face as he looked at her – it seemed impossible that she could ever have ignored him. That she could ever have gazed at him without desire.

"Vaughn's calmed down now," Sydney said. "He's back in his room – the one he was in before."

"He'll come back." Eric's jaw only set like that when he was being especially stubborn. "If he needs a bad guy to blame for this, give me the black hat, okay?"

"Vaughn doesn't need a bad guy. You know that."

He breathed out heavily. "Yeah. I know that." They studied each other in the light of the single lamp, and Sydney saw the subtle change in him – the understanding of what she was feeling, his unwillingness to believe it. "If you weren't sure I'd talked to Vaughn – if that's not what you want to talk about – why are you here?"

"I want to settle some unfinished business." Sydney took one deliberate step closer to him. "I want you to kiss me goodbye."

"Stop." Eric almost flinched. She knew she was hurting him, but she couldn't let herself care. In the long run, this was too important.

"You ran out of my life like you were fleeing a crime scene, Eric. That's not what happened between us. We deserve a better ending than that."

Two more steps, and she was close to him – so close he could have wrapped his arms around her, if they weren't still folded. Eric's eyes drifted down to her mouth, sending a sharp jolt through her. His voice ragged, he said, "You deserve the happy ending, Syd. But I'm not a part of it."

"Eric, please." He would understand someday. That was what mattered – that Eric would finally understand, even if she weren't there to see it. "Just one kiss –"

She pressed her lips to his, a chaste kiss that would have been a decent farewell. But she felt the galvanic shock of need between them – Eric's hands moving to her shoulders, her tender breasts brushing against his chest – and kissed him again.

In an instant, Eric had her in his arms, crushing her against him. His tongue slipped into her mouth, and he pushed her back against the wall so that their bodies were pressed together, and Sydney still couldn't get him close enough. Arousal made her shake as she kept touching him, running her fingertips through his dark hair. He kissed her so hard, clutched her so tightly – was this desperation? Guilt? Need? She didn't care, as long as Eric didn't let her go.

This was all she had planned for tonight, but she hadn't planned for this – this wanting, this need, a hundred times stronger than it had ever been before. Sydney knew that, if her body were only ready for sex again, she would have made love to him tonight. Eric would have resisted her, but she could have gotten him to the bed. Oh, God, she wanted to take him to bed.

But she couldn't, not so soon after birth, and it was for the best. Even in Eric's embrace, she couldn't afford to forget what she needed to do tonight.

At last their kisses became slower, shallow, until finally they were both still, Eric's forehead resting against hers, their lips not even an inch apart.

"So much for willpower," he said. "This doesn't bode well. I'm just saying."

"It's okay. Just this once, it's okay."

His breath was warm against her cheek. "I'm not so sure."

"I love you," she whispered. "I need to know that you believe that."

"Don't do this to me, Syd." He stepped away from her, already shutting himself away again. "If I believed that, don't you see that it would only be worse? And I can't get through much worse than losing you. Don't make me. Please."

Sydney could have argued the point with him. She would have been right, in one sense. But tonight, she would only be hurting him. Maybe later he'd understand the truth of what she'd done and why. "I'm going," she said. "This won't happen again. I promise."

That much, at least, was the absolute truth.

His eyes betrayed every lie he'd spoken, every impulse he was holding back; they followed her hungrily as she went to the door.

And now she was free to begin.

It took her less time than she would've thought to find Nadia, who was at the very prow of the boat, looking for the world like a figurehead, or maybe an actress auditioning for a _Titanic_ remake. "We have to talk," Sydney said.

They were the first words she'd spoken to Nadia alone in almost a year – since before her sister had abandoned her to go to Sloane. Nadia turned slowly, as if unwilling to grant Sydney the attention. She wore a white tank top that hugged her lean form, pants slung low on her hips. Sydney could see what Vaughn liked about her, and even now – with Eric's kiss still warm on her lips – that thought made her jealous almost to the point of illness.

"What about?" Nadia was expressionless, to a degree that could only have been calculated. Sydney liked that. If they were adversaries, then she knew how to play this.

"We need some privacy." They walked in perfect silence to the nearest room, which happened to be sickbay. The walls hemmed them in closer to each other than Sydney would have preferred for this conversation, but it would do. "You know about Mom. You know that we're all at risk – maybe even you."

"Everyone except Sark." Nadia raised an eyebrow. "Which means everyone we care about."

Sydney ignored the attempt at humor, except to note that Nadia, too, was uncomfortable. Good. "My father's putting together an assault team to go back to Bomani's lab, get through whatever forces are assembled there, and get more raw materials to formulate enough vaccine to at least protect everyone on board. Do you see the problem with this scenario?"

"A large-scale attack team is a tactical mistake. We don't have many people here, so we can't outgun them. A one- or two-person infiltration effort would probably be more successful. I don't understand why he hasn't tried that."

Unwillingly, Sydney ratcheted up her opinion of her sister's ability. "My guess? He didn't really trust anyone to go but himself – or me. He's injured, and he doesn't think I'm ready to go on a mission yet. But I think he's wrong."

"You're going. Tonight." Nadia cocked her head. "Why are you telling me?"

"Because my father might be right. I need someone to back me up. Vaughn or Weiss could do it, but either of them would try to stop me from going in the first place. Sark would probably go with me just for fun, but I'm not convinced he'd return with what we found there, not if I don't make it back with him. I need someone who cares about other people on this ship – more than they care about me." Sydney sighed. "And that leaves me with you."

"Who is it you think I care about so much? We're going after a vaccine, not a cure. Mama – we've already lost her. You know that."

Nadia was testing her now, and Sydney was ready to test her in turn. "I think you'll come back for Vaughn."

They stared at one another in silence. Nadia's shock took her a second too long to conceal. She wasn't blind to Vaughn's feelings, Sydney realized, but she'd never expected him to tell Sydney about it. There was embarrassment there, but also hope, and Sydney would have hated it if she hadn't needed it, too.

Nadia said, "And the prophecy – that doesn't scare you at all?"

"That we're destined to fight each other, and only one of us will survive?" Sydney shrugged. "If you're the survivor, and you bring the vaccine back to this ship for my daughter afterward, honestly, I don't give a damn."

The smile on Nadia's face provided the first genuine moment that had ever passed between them. "When do we start?"

"Now."

**

VI.

 

Jack sat on the far side of the room, watching Irina sleep.

Her pallid skin was covered in a thin sheen of sweat; her lips were cracked, her hair damp. He'd never seen her like this, so weak. Even when she'd confronted him about the Rain of Gold in Los Angeles, as shaken as she'd been, Irina had still possessed her strength. Now she seemed smaller than herself – fading away before his eyes.

She'd never been ill a day of their marriage; he used to joke with her about it. Even pregnancy had only seemed to make her stronger. Jack had imagined her dying in many ways – even at his own hands – but he had never imagined her slowly falling apart, giving into darkness.

As if she'd heard his thoughts, Irina opened her eyes. The whites were almost wholly red now, rendering her face nearly grotesque. "You're still here."

"Where else would I be?"

"With Sydney. Or Sarah." She breathed out, a shallow, ragged sound. The disease was moving into her lungs. "I'm glad I got the chance to see Sarah."

Whenever she talked like that, Jack became acutely uncomfortable. "Are you thirsty? Or hungry? You didn't eat much, earlier."

Even with her eyes blood-clouded, Irina could still fix him in a knowing stare. "You know I'm not hungry."

"You need to eat."

"You mean, you need to feed me." She sighed. "Maybe some toast."

He hurried, as much as his foot would allow him to hurry, down to the galley. The toast from earlier would be cold, but he could make more. As the bread darkened, he remembered an old broken toaster and a bottle of rotgut; maybe it was a measure of their marriage that, when he thought of the good times, he thought of a night he'd nearly set the house on fire.

Toast done, he put it on a plate, set it on the tray still standing where Sydney had left it, then picked it up –

\--and felt paper beneath his fingertips.

A quick tug revealed the note affixed to the bottom of the tray. Jack half-opened it, recognized Sydney's handwriting, dropped the tray on the table and went to the door. One of the guards was walking through the hallway; Jack ordered, "Find my daughter. Now."

The guard left, and Jack began to read.

_  
Dad, _

By the time you read this, I will have left the ship. Nadia has probably gone with me. Vaughn has Sarah; tell him there's formula in the fridge and in sickbay.

You know where I've gone and why. If you think about it, you'll realize that I'm doing the right thing.

The right thing. Risking her life, when she was still weakened from childbirth – and Nadia? Why, of all the people on this ship, had she chosen Nadia? Had their failure to find a cure within Sarah convinced her that none of Rambaldi's prophecies were real?

__

The thing is, I know that you're not going to think about it. You're never going to admit that I've done what I had to do. You think it's your job to take care of me, no matter what. And if you could have gone on your own, to risk your life to protect me, you would have done it a long time ago.

But if it's your job to take care of me, then it's my job to take care of Sarah. You have to let me protect her, Dad. That's the one thing that I know you have to admit is my responsibility, my duty and my right. You understand what it means to sacrifice anything – everything – to protect your daughter.

Jack sat down heavily in one of the galley's chairs, telling himself that his injury demanded it. The footsteps of the guards in the hallways were becoming heavier and more numerous; the search was intensifying. But by now, Jack was certain that Sydney and Nadia had left the ship within an hour of her planting this note on the tray. If she'd done that while they were speaking, and he felt sure that she had, they were two hours into Mozambique by now.

__

When I look down at Sarah, and I think about all the secrets that surround her – all the terrible things that could happen to her – I understand why you've done so much of what you've done. I don't excuse all of your actions, but at least now I know what you feel: I could kill anyone who wanted to hurt her. I would betray anyone if it meant being loyal to her. And I would tell any lie to anyone – even to Sarah herself – if I thought that lie had even a chance of keeping her safe.

I'm sorry I never understood that before. But I couldn't understand. How could I know that you did these things out of love for me when you always tried so hard to hide that love away?

That, too, had been protecting her. Did she still not understand how he'd tried to spare her a love so entangled in lies? Jack's fingers were gripping the paper so hard it wrinkled beneath his gaze.

__

I'm going to do what you've always done: protect my daughter. And you're going to have to do what I've always done: take something on faith.

During the storm, I told you that we hadn't learned to trust each other yet. You still don't trust my judgment, and I still don't trust your love for me – not even now, when I know what it means to love a daughter. And I want to believe in you, Dad. There's nothing left in the world left to hang on to, except each other.

When you don't send the strike team after me – when you let me go, let me protect my daughter, and have faith in my ability to get back – I'll finally know that you trust me. And you'll know that wherever I am, even if I never return – I'll finally believe that you love me. I need to believe that at last.

I hope you realize that I've always loved you. Even when I wasn't speaking to you, even when we were so far apart it looked like we would never get back – I always loved you, Dad. And that's what gives me the strength to go. Because I know, no matter what, Sarah will always love me. Daughters can't help it.

Sydney

Jack wanted his ankle healed, now, but that couldn't happen. He also wanted a CETME rifle and an armored car and a clear path to Bomani's lab; those could happen, and they would. Sydney could hate him all she wanted, believe whatever she wanted to believe, as long as she was here and safe.

But then he envisioned Sydney's face as it had been in Wittenburg – tears running down her cheeks, expression changing from agony to coldness. She had threatened him on that day, saying they would never speak again; if she drew that line again, the threat might be real. They probably didn't have much time left for mending fences.

Sydney might die on her mission tonight. If he brought her back, she might die from the Rain of Gold. He would do anything to save her – but there was nothing left. Jack could hide from the truth no longer: His daughter was beyond his rescue, beyond his reach.

A sound at the door made him turn – but instead of the guards, it was Robin Dixon, leaning down to hold the hands of the toddling Mitchell Flinkman. "See, big boy? You walked to the kitchen almost by yourself. Oh – hey, Mr. Bristow."

"Robin." This was more or less the extent of the conversation that had ever passed between them, by mutual consent.

"Did you drop this?" She pointed to the tray, which had scattered toast and plate across the table when he'd let it fall.

"Yes, I did. You don't have to clean it up."

"Was that for your wife?"

He felt as though he ought to correct Robin, though her words were not inaccurate. "Yes, it is. Or it was."

"She's sick with the same thing that – that Dad got, isn't she?"

Jack tried to think of what best to say; he was out of practice in talking to teenage girls, not that he had ever been much good at it. But there was something in Robin's face that wasn't unlike Sydney's at that age – that naked worry that could cut your heart out if you let it. "Don't worry. You and Stephen and Mitchell are all vaccinated against the disease. You're safe."

Robin nodded, but she didn't seem to understand that the interview should now be over. "I know it's scary. You want to do something, but you can't. They wouldn't even let me see him in the hospital except for one time, but he was so sleepy he couldn't really talk to us. I think they had given him some drugs, so it wouldn't hurt."

"I'm sorry." It was all he could think of to say. Maybe it would do.

But tears were welling in Robin's eyes, even as Mitchell plopped onto the floor to pull at her shoelaces. "I was mean to him, right before he got sick. Dad wouldn't let me go to the Halloween dance, and A.J. Bryant was going to be there, and I was all excited because I thought A.J. liked me. It was just this stupid guy and this stupid dance, and I didn't talk to Dad for a week because of it. I didn't know it was the last week he was going to be around."

Jack stopped trying to think about how to escape. Carefully, he put one hand on Robin's shoulder, as uneasy about offering it as she probably was in accepting it. "Don't worry about that any longer. Your father wouldn't want you to."

"But I never said anything nice to him, and –"

"He knew you loved him."

Robin sniffled once, hope in her eyes that was even more vulnerable than the worry had been. "Are you sure?"

"Fathers know."

She nodded, accepting that with a small smile. "Come on, Mitchell. Let's see if you can't walk back down the hall." As she pulled Mitchell up on his sturdy little legs, she added, "Thanks."

As she left, she wiggled Mitchell out of the way of the guard, who had finally returned. "Your daughter doesn't appear to be on board."

"No. She's attempting to penetrate Bomani's lab herself, with Nadia Santos' assistance." Jack half-gestured with the note, as explanation.

"We can send the team after her, either to intercept or for backup."

If he could be sure that he would save Sydney, Jack would go after her and damn the consequences. But knowing that he couldn't be sure of any such thing, he had to ask himself the last thing he wanted to tell her before she died.

Jack said, "All hands should remain on board. Reiterate this for Mr. Weiss and Mr. Vaughn as strongly as necessary."

"Sir –"

"Let her go."

His body felt weighted down as he went back to Irina's room, his limp stronger than it had been in days. When he came in, Irina was still awake. "No toast?"

"I forgot it. I'll go –"

"I didn't want it." She breathed out, that shallow, ragged sound again. "I'm glad you're back."

He looked at her, sweaty and tangled in her bedclothes, and realized one thing he could do for her. "You need a bath."

"Are you going to sponge me down? I'd have feigned illness much sooner." Some fragment of her former mischief lingered in her bloodshot eyes.

"I can do better than that." Jack stripped her down, quickly and efficiently, before doing the same for himself. She was able to brace her hands around his neck well enough for them to reach the cabin's head, where he set the shower's water to a lukewarm temperature. Within a few moments, they were together, Jack holding Irina up with one arm while he used the other to wash her hair. Irina leaned against him completely, saying nothing, making only a soft murmur of satisfaction as he rubbed her scalp.

Sydney was gone; Irina was going. Only Sarah was left to fight for, to live for. Sarah was a reason to go on, but Jack could not imagine feeling any joy in life again. The last of it swayed in his arms.

When he'd rinsed the suds from her hair, Jack reached for the nozzle. "We should get you back to bed."

"Not yet."

"You must want to lie down –"

"Not yet, Jack." Irina's arms tightened around his shoulders, and he realized that she wanted to be held. Beneath the flowing water, Jack bowed his head down to her shoulder and tried to pretend that holding her was enough, that he would never have to let go.

**


	24. Chapter 24

_If it be your will  
That I speak no more  
And my voice be still  
As it was before  
I shall abide until  
I am spoken for  
If it be your will_

If it be your will  
If there is a choice  
Let the rivers fill  
Let the hills rejoice  
Let your mercy spill  
On all these burning hearts in hell  
If it be your will  
To make us well

And draw us near  
And bind us tight  
All your children here  
In their rags of light

In our rags of light  
All dressed to kill  
And end this night  
If it be your will

\--"If It Be Your Will," Leonard Cohen

 

IRENICON: Book Twelve

 

I.

 

"We're close," Nadia said. She was only a dark shape ahead of Sydney in the underbrush, black on green in the moonlight. "I remember this hill."

From when you came here with Vaughn, Sydney thought but did not say. The idea held less bitterness as she became more accustomed to it, but it still stung.

"We should've run into ground troops by now. Getting past the perimeter was too easy." Sydney forced herself to keep up, sliding downhill beside Nadia, feet tilted to gain traction in the loose, moist jungle soil. Her weakness relative to her sister was already showing, but if they were near enough to the hill, perhaps it didn't matter. "Whoever's come here is trying to stop people from finding the lab – but he hasn't prepared for people who know where the lab is."

"That's the same mistake we made," Nadia said.

"It's overconfidence. That worked against us last time; it can work for us now." Once they were in the building, their opponent would find it was difficult to keep them from leaving it. "You remember where everything was kept?"

"The notes, the vials, all of it. I'll locate, you'll translate. In and out."

Which one of us is giving the orders? Sydney thought. Then again, her status as team leader had never been established anywhere but in her own mind; if Nadia considered them equal partners, that was precisely what they were – until Sydney herself proved otherwise.

She wasn't at all sure she could do that, not now. It was her expertise that would get them into the lab and lead them to the materials they needed; if they escaped again, that would be a function of Nadia's strength. Until tonight, Sydney had not fully appreciated how little physical activity she'd engaged in while pregnant – though she was still in good shape by ordinary standards, she wouldn't have passed an agency fitness trial. The long hike from the last place they'd dared drive the rented Jeep had left her winded and slightly lightheaded. Worst of all, her breasts burned and ached, hard and heavy with the milk that she should have given to Sarah hours before. Her bra was damp with it. Some commando, Sydney thought.

Her mind seemed to be as ill-prepared as her body. Normally, Sydney was never more focused than she was during a mission. But now her thoughts were cluttered with a litany of worries: Sarah's hungry. No, she's not, Vaughn's fed her, he's taken care of her. By now Vaughn knows, they all know – and nobody tried to intercept us – Dad listened to me, he let me go, but he would have been right to stop me, because I don't know if I can do this --

Sydney breathed in deeply, silencing her fears. She could get into the lab and guide Nadia to the materials they needed. After that, it didn't matter what happened to her. Nadia looked more than able to take care of herself.

"Wait," Nadia said, just as Sydney began walking. She scooped her fingers into the ground, then drew cool lines of mud across Sydney's cheeks and forehead. As she did the same to herself, she smiled. "Better?"

We would have played like this as girls, Sydney thought, if we'd been raised as sisters. The idea made her sad, but she smiled back. "Thanks."

**

"We could've caught them," Vaughn said, aware of the incongruity of having this conversation while he tried to bottle-feed his daughter for the first time. Sarah, displeased with the change, fretted between every two or three swallows; he tried to think tactics while dabbing formula from the sides of her mouth. "Why the hell didn't Jack send a team?"

"You got me." Weiss paced the length of the galley, hands clenched so tightly that his knuckles were pale. A truce between them had been wordlessly declared the moment Sydney was confirmed as missing. They still found it easier to have their conversation without looking at each other. "He should've been out of there, the second he knew she was gone. We ought to be trying to catch up."

Vaughn agreed, but that was beside the point. "Jack's not going after them, and he's not sending anybody. That means someone else has to go."

"You mean --" Weiss stopped pacing and stared hard at Vaughn. "You and me."

"No." As much as Vaughn itched to help Sydney and Nadia, other responsibilities were even more important. "I have to stay with Sarah."

"Jack could –"

"Jack's watching Irina die," Vaughn snapped. "Besides, even if I thought letting Jack take care of a baby was a good idea, I couldn't hand her off to him. He'd know what we were planning."

"First of all, the guy didn't drop Sydney on her head or anything, even though you wouldn't know that from whatever crack-brained mission she's on right now. Second, we have other babysitting options. What about Robin? She's not going to ask any questions, not for a while."

"We aren't talking about leaving Sarah behind for a couple of hours!" Vaughn took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. "If there's a risk Sydney isn't coming back, I'm staying here. I grew up without one parent, and that was hard enough. No way am I going to put my daughter at risk of losing both parents."

Weiss sighed. "Okay. Fair enough. But why not run this by Jack, get his perspective? He'd have a plan; you know he would."

Sometimes Vaughn felt as though the months he'd spent away from Sydney and Weiss were years. "If Jack wanted anybody to go after Sydney and Nadia, he would have gone himself. Period. He didn't, so he's not going to okay anybody else's plan. That means we can't tip him off to the fact that you're going."

It was simultaneously the strangest and the most right feeling in the world, to trust Weiss completely with Sydney's safety.

After a pause, Weiss accepted his reasoning, nodding as he said, "Okay. I'd prefer backup, but once I catch up with Syd, that's backup enough. How are we going to –"

His voice trailed off as footsteps approached; Vaughn felt a tremor of unease and contempt as Julian Sark strolled in, dressed all in black, as though he would be heading to a nightclub later. Thus far, everyone on board had done a good job of keeping him and Sark separate, which was exactly how Vaughn had preferred it.

Sark raised an eyebrow. "Merely here for some water. Don't let me interrupt." But he hesitated a couple of steps into the galley and peered down at Sarah. "Forgive my curiosity. I've not actually seen her before."

"How did we ever leave you off the babysitter's list?" Vaughn would've shrugged, had Sarah not ruined his delivery by spitting up some formula.

As he dabbed her down, Sark stepped even closer; Vaughn's arms tightened around Sarah instinctively. Sark's voice was almost kind as he said, "Come now. I'm simply enjoying how very much she looks like her maternal grandmother. The resemblance should be delightful for you, as time goes on."

"I'm not interested in your opinion on this."

"You should listen more carefully. I'm sure you've read your fairy tales; not every guest at the christening is one of the good fairies. And the uninvited visitors frequently have the most interesting things to say." Sark pulled out a bottle of water, adding casually, "Besides, if it's backup you want –"

"You've GOT to be kidding." Weiss folded his arms. "There is a very short list of people I trust with my life, but if that list were a hundred times longer than it is, you still wouldn't be on it."

"Trust. You all place so much value on such an unnecessary commodity." Sark's smile was sharp and knowing – the smile of a man who knew he had the better of an argument. "You require a second person on your search party—someone with both the expertise and the will to defy Jack Bristow's instructions. Mr. Vaughn, due to family responsibilities, is unable to assist. Whom else do you expect to ask? Or does a suicide mission sound like just the thing? You can prove your devotion to Sydney and give her up all in one noble stroke."

Weiss had the exact same look on his face that he'd had before he got in that bar fight junior year of college. "You son of a –"

"Weiss – hang on." Vaughn took a couple of deep breaths and forced himself to think rationally. Sark was a snake – but he was good at what he did. That had always worked against them; could it work for them now?

Quickly, he went through the possibilities in his mind, trying to think of any motive Sark would have for stabbing Weiss in the back. Killing Sydney? As long as the cure for the Rain of Gold remained a mystery, Sark had a vested interest in keeping Syd alive. Getting back in Sloane's good graces? There was no guarantee Sloane would ever know about any of this, or that anything short of Sydney's murder would make the guy happy.

Vaughn tried them out and counted them off, one by one – and none of Sark's potential motives for betrayal panned out. The only thing he might have to gain by this would be escape. So, worst-case scenario: Once they were off the ship, Sark could just take off and leave Weiss on his own, in which case Weiss was no worse off.

Vaughn looked at Weiss and said, "Think about it."

"We're giving this guy a gun?" Weiss said. "How is this a good idea?"

"No gun. No weapons of any kind. If you get into a situation where you want to arm him, do it. If you get into a situation where you want to shoot him, do it. Otherwise, he's just another pair of eyes and ears." Readjusting Sarah in his arms, Vaughn added, "It's your call."

His eyes met Weiss' again, and in that moment – united by their appraisal of a common enemy – the distance between them seemed to have fallen away to nothing. They were on the same page again – friends again, if only for right now.

"I'm waiting," Sark said, between sips of his water. "What will it be?"

**

Nadia crept along the perimeter of the main lab. Every small sound she or Sydney made – a footfall that was slightly too loud, the faint click of Sydney's fingers against the computer keyboard – made her flinch. But thus far, they'd run into only one guard, who had quickly and silently been dispatched into unconsciousness. His rifle was now slung over Nadia's shoulder; his body was sprawled on the floor.

When she glanced behind her, she saw Sydney hard at work. Sydney didn't look good; if Nadia had noticed a stranger so pale and drawn, she would probably have offered to help that person find a place to lie down. But Sydney's resolve was clear as she paged through various documents, translating as she went. The supplies they'd needed for the vaccines' reproduction were already in a satchel on her lap; how long could it take to find synthesizing requirements?

"I think I've found something," Sydney said, as though she'd heard Nadia's thoughts.

"Memorize it, and let's go."

"Wait, wait, wait. This is important. This could be –"

Her curiosity got the better of her. Nadia turned around, studying Sydney's transfixed face. "What else have you found?"

The door's click ricocheted through the room like a gunshot. Nadia whirled toward the noise, rifle in her hand in a second, firing blind. A dark-clad figure fell, but two others appeared, forcing her to drop to the floor. Behind her, she heard a deep THUNK followed by the shimmery sound of broken glass; they'd hit the computer monitor. Had they hit Sydney too?

Angered by a protectiveness she hadn't known she felt, Nadia shouldered her rifle, bracing herself to fire from the floor. But then she heard a voice that made her go cold: "Don't shoot."

Sydney – apparently unharmed – spat the name out as though it tasted bad. "Sloane."

Nadia sat up and saw him, impeccably suit-clad even here in the center of the jungle. Seeing him again was harder than she'd thought it would be. "Papa?"

His eyes darted over to her for only a moment, then moved back to Sydney, as though Nadia were invisible.

**

Eric was already up to 92 things he didn't like about this current scenario, and he hadn't even gotten to Sark's rap sheet yet. But if the only way to help Sydney was to get some backup, and the only possible backup was Sark – the one thing he did approve of outweighed all 92 he didn't.

"Stay back near the door," he said to Sark, who was a couple steps behind as they headed to the supply room. Vaughn, Sarah on his shoulder, took the rear. "I'm getting weapons. You're staying away from the weapons."

"Just remain about five steps in front of me," Vaughn said, though he didn't look all that kick-ass while he was holding a baby.

Sark held up his hands, as if in a gesture of surrender. "You're making this entire process far more unpleasant than it needs to be. We may as well be cordial to one another. Common goals, and all that."

"We have one common goal," Weiss said, not sure even that was true. He took up a Glock – not his usual model, but more than appropriate for the trip. "Doesn't make you my fraternity brother."

"I think you and I share more than you realize, Mr. Weiss. Lives in espionage, strong skills too often employed only in the service of others -- and an appreciation of Michael Vaughn's women."

Eric felt the adrenalin surge of anger as a throb in his temples, a clutch at his heart. "Sark, just shut the fuck –"

Sark moved faster than Eric could really see – a duck, a slam, and Vaughn was going down from an elbow to the ribs. But Sarah –

"Sark, put her down!" Eric aimed the Glock straight at him, only to have the screaming baby held up as a shield.

"Believe me when I say that I'm as appalled as you are," Sark said. "Beneath my dignity, I know. But, as the saying goes, any port in a storm. Mr. Vaughn, if you're fond of your daughter, I suggest that you move to the far corner. Hands on your head, please."

Vaughn was crouched on the ground, doubled over with pain; his eyes sought Eric's, looking for guidance. The fingers of one of Sark's hands were wrapped around Sarah's tiny neck. It would only take one wrench. Eric nodded, and Vaughn did what Sark said, muttering curses beneath his breath the entire time.

"Do you seriously think you can get off this ship with her?" Eric said. "Or is this just a game you're playing to find out if Jack Bristow actually would skin someone alive?"

"I meant what I said. I don't like this." Sark's voice was raised slightly to compete with Sarah's cries. "I'm not here for Sarah, or for you. This is between me and Mr. Vaughn. Or it will be, as soon as you throw me your gun. Do it now."

Vaughn nodded; fear for his daughter obviously outweighed everything else, even his anger. Eric knew pretty much how he felt. With a gentle, underhand toss he lobbed the gun at Sark, who caught it deftly in one hand while still holding onto Sarah with the other.

"Very good. I'm going to set the child down now, and then you will collect her, Mr. Weiss."

"You're just handing her over?" Vaughn didn't seem able to believe it. "Just like that?"

"I consider this a serious matter, and my sadism is purely recreational." Sark knelt, keeping his gun leveled between Eric's eyes the entire time. Sarah wailed even more pitifully as he laid her on the floor and stepped back; Eric was almost grateful to be able to drop to his knees and scoop her up in his arms. He'd never held Sarah before this moment, and the surge of protectiveness that washed through him was dizzyingly intense.

"I can't believe I brought you down here," Vaughn said.

Sark smiled. "I saw you weighing all my possible motives; you're still an open book, you know. But you had a blind spot. It never occurred to you that I might be thinking of Lauren. That I might want justice for her."

Eric thought: You have got to be fucking kidding me. He said only, "Lauren got justice. Remember?"

"We define it differently. Now, Mr. Weiss, if you'll be so good as to move to the supply closet across the hallway. Yes, that one. I'll lock up behind you, and you can babysit to your heart's content for an hour or so. I doubt my work with Mr. Vaughn will take any longer than that. A ship's patrol should find you shortly thereafter."

"I'm not leaving you alone with him," Eric protested to Vaughn.

"Yes, you are." Vaughn's eyes were steely. "Get Sarah to safety. That's all that matters."

Hating himself, hating Sark, hating even Syd and Vaughn for being big dumb heroic jerks, Eric held the whimpering Sarah close as he backed into the closet. He couldn't see Vaughn any more, but he heard him say, quietly, "Take care of her." Eric wasn't sure it was Sarah that Vaughn was talking about now.

As the darkness enfolded him, he said to Sark's silhouette, "You know you're going to hell for this."

"You'll have to use that threat on someone who isn't on the verge of immortality." Sark slammed the door shut.

Sarah's shrieks redoubled at the noise, and Eric patted her back, trying to soothe her. "Hang on, baby girl, hang on." He squinted, trying to adjust his eyes to the dim light. "Your Uncle Eric's gonna figure out how to pick a lock."

**

Sydney Bristow was still alive.

Sloane stared down at her, dismay warring with relief. He couldn't deny his emotional response to seeing her; if he'd thought she would allow it, he would have embraced her. Of course, it meant that the worst was not behind them, but still lay ahead.

"Jack did this," he said. "Nobody else could have."

"Kept me safe from you? That's right." Her movements as she struggled to her feet were uncharacteristically clumsy. "What are you doing here?"

He ignored her question, distracted by her shape. Even though she wore an oversized flannel shirt, he could see the rounded curve of her belly, the new fullness of her breasts. "Sydney – you're pregnant?"

Sydney's face revealed her displeasure at his realization, but she obviously saw that there was no point in lying to him about what her body so clearly betrayed. "No. I'm a mother."

A new mother, then – no more than a month. Sloane did the calculations, realized the threat instantly. "You were never the cure. It was always your child. I'm glad there's no more reason to harm you, Sydney. Though you won't believe me, I'm greatly relieved."

"Since that means you want to hurt my child instead, it's not much of a relief for me." But then she smiled, her expression challenging him. "But my baby's with my father – and my mother. They're together. I think they can take care of you."

Sloane breathed out heavily, knowing he was doing a poor job of hiding his dismay. So, Jack had broken down, gone back to Irina. Some men never learned; their emotions ruled them. Perhaps Jack's stubborn refusal to accept so many of the smaller joys and loves of life made the few that entered his heart all the more powerful. And Irina was merely playing another of her games. Would she never accept that she had a finer destiny than whoring herself out for personal advantage? Apparently not.

"Your parents are formidable individuals, Sydney. I wouldn't argue that point with you." He stepped a little closer – though, of course, not within range for her to strike. "What's more interesting to me is that they seem unlikely to have allowed you to go on such an errand without a strike team, particularly in your current condition. Something seems to have added urgency to your situation. And I wonder what that might be?"

"It's a fair question," Sydney said. "Just like the question of what you're doing here. You should be tucked away safe and sound, shouldn't you? To wait out the Rain of Gold? But you're not. You're here. What's so important that it drew you out of your shell?"

As if she didn't know. As if they didn't all know, as if she hadn't brought Nadia along just to mock him.

"Papa?" Nadia stumbled to her feet. "Papa, I know that you're angry, but I wanted –"

"I don't care what you want," he snarled at the thing that had masqueraded as his child. "Don't speak to me."

If he hadn't known better, he would have thought Sydney looked surprised.

**

Sark had learned how to plan from Irina Derevko herself, which meant that he was terribly good at it. But the current plan was makeshift at best, and he knew it; it would serve his purposes to hurry.

The muffled cries from behind the closet door would undoubtedly slow Weiss' escape efforts only slightly. Say thirty minutes, maximum.

It would be a simple matter to shoot Weiss upon his emergence, but there was always the risk of hitting the child. Sark had considered killing her; though it struck him as a profoundly distasteful act, the infant's murder would hurt Vaughn as nothing else had the power to do. But the baby was one of the Derevko women – and with Katya dead, Irina dying and Sydney and Nadia on a suicide mission, possibly Sarah was the last. To his surprise, Sark found he was just sentimental enough to want to keep that bloodline alive. He considered it a gift to Irina, payment in full for everything she'd given him, whether she ever knew it or not.

He'd have to work efficiently, then, to get done before the ship's patrol arrived or Weiss escaped. But he already knew just how everything would go.

"More of your recreational sadism?" Vaughn's arms were cuffed above his head, his feet just able to make contact with the floor as he dangled from a metal abutment.

"This is business. This is something I've sworn to do."

"To avenge Lauren? Give me a break, Sark. You two were fucking. Big deal. If you've somehow confused yourself into thinking that you cared about her, you can't be a big enough fool to think that she cared about you."

"Your priorities never cease to amaze me, Vaughn." He remembered Lauren, black lace on white skin, those guarded eyes he never understood. Had he loved her? Sark would never know the answer – but he didn't have to know. "The only thing that matters is that she was mine. You took her away from me, and you took pleasure in doing so. You took your revenge, and I shall take mine."

"You really don't have anything left, do you?" Sark could hear the smile in Vaughn's voice, even though he wasn't looking at the man's face. "If you're down to risking everything for Lauren – the rest of your life must have been completely emptied out. I'm dying a happier man than you'll ever be."

Was this a reference to the wailing behind the door? It scarcely mattered.

"I've had occasion to observe you very carefully during the previous two years. 'Happy' is not the first word that comes to mind." He sorted through the various supplies in the room, spied what he wanted and smiled. "How did your little saga of Lauren's death begin? Ah, yes. With a crowbar."

The heft of the metal in his hands and the velocity of the swing were almost as satisfying as the crunch of Vaughn's ribs, but the cry of pain was definitely the best.

**

Sloane's anger toward Nadia confused Sydney deeply; after all his big speeches about paternal love, why was he being such a bastard? Because Nadia escaped?

Sydney needed Sloane angry, upset – distracted. He hadn't yet raised a full alert, which was to their advantage. Two guards and Sloane: They could handle that, as long as Nadia realized it. But right now, Nadia was blinking tears from her eyes. Focusing was going to be Sydney's job for a while.

"I've been doing some reading," Sydney said. "Some pretty interesting stuff."

Sloane ignored this. "Was it a boy or a girl, Sydney? It doesn't make any difference, but I'm curious to know. As a family friend."

"That's a strange definition of friend." Sydney decided that either refusing or lying would be more pathetic than telling the truth; whatever protection her father and Vaughn could give Sarah, it wouldn't come from anonymity. "A girl."

"A granddaughter. Jack must be very proud."

"Don't stand there and pretend that you're not going to try to kill her." Sydney could simply have told him that Sarah didn't provide the cure – but he wouldn't have believed her in any case. Better to keep him from acting, especially given what she now knew. "You're never going to lay a hand on my daughter."

Sloane smiled. "You remind me of Jack sometimes. Don't be offended."

"I'm not." At this moment, it was the highest compliment Sydney could have hoped to receive.

"You were reading something, Sydney." Nadia's voice was tremulous, still shaken by the absolute rejection from her father. But she was staying focused. Good, Sydney thought, cheering her sister on without meeting her eyes. "Something interesting."

"Bomani had found out that Thomas Brill was designated to feed Vaughn false intel," Sydney said. Her eyes bored into Sloane's, wishing him to drop dead from the truth of what she had to say. "He was supposed to pass on a Rambaldi prophecy. A false prophecy."

Sloane breathed in sharply. That's right, you bastard, Sydney thought with a surge of triumph. I'm onto you now.

"What prophecy did this Brill person tell Michael?" Nadia took a step forward – and though it looked as if she was moved by emotion, Sydney could see her getting into striking range of one of the guards. For the first time, she realized, she really could learn to love her sister.

"That if the two of us ever met, we would battle – and one of us wouldn't survive. Nadia, it's a lie. It's nothing but a lie."

"Why tell us that? What purpose does that lie serve?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out. You want to help us out here, Sloane?" Sydney didn't seriously think he'd cooperate, but she wanted to notice his reactions. Behind him, Nadia's face was changing from bewilderment to something Sydney could only call hope. "Why fake a Rambaldi prophecy just to keep two half-sisters from ever –"

"Stop it!" Sloane's face looked harder than Sydney had ever seen it – harsh, and ugly, the true man finally stripped of his genteel façade. "I know the truth. I talked to Judy Barnett in Los Angeles. She told me about Nadia."

Nadia's eyes flickered over to Sydney, who had to work not to betray her own confusion. She tried to sound like she already knew as she casually asked, "Told you what?"

"I know Nadia's not my real daughter. Jack is her father. It seems obvious, in retrospect – but you played upon an old man's vulnerabilities well. I salute you, whatever such trickery is worth." Sloane sighed out heavily. "But you should have known there would be – repercussions."

Sydney had heard her father's story; it was medically impossible for him to be Nadia's father too. Why did Sloane believe that?

Judy Barnett. The psychological counter-ops. Barnett had spun Sloane – taken away the daughter at the center of his world, not to mention his connection to Rambaldi. That was what had driven Sloane out of his safe patterns, all the secure places he'd found for himself to hide while the Rain of Gold ravaged the world. If it weren't for that, Sloane wouldn't be here – and Sydney wouldn't have the chance to take him out for once and for all.

Good job, Judy, Sydney thought, realizing the woman was dead by now. You put this into play. I'm not going to waste the chance.

"You're not my father?" Nadia's shock no longer looked feigned as she stumbled forward, and Sydney felt both pity and panic at the expression on her face. "I don't believe it. I can't believe it."

Sloane looked back at Nadia, sad now instead of angry, and Sydney's gut clenched. How close were they? Could Judy's work be undone, if they'd formed a strong enough bond? She remembered Dad telling her that his feelings for her had never changed when he'd doubted his paternity; what if it was turned out to be the same for Sloane?

Could he win Nadia back, even now?

**

Vaughn bit down on his lip so hard he could taste fresh blood, but it didn't stop a moan from escaping.

"Honestly. You've got nine more toenails; you didn't really need that one." Sark flicked away his prize, one of the few pieces of detailed work he'd done. Mostly he'd contented himself with beating the shit out of Vaughn.

Sore and dazed, Vaughn kept hoping against hope that the ship's patrol was going to arrive in time to save his life. No doubt Sark had it timed down to the second, though; Vaughn couldn't expect to live more than a couple more minutes.

Every once in a while, he would hear Sarah wail from behind the door, though Weiss was keeping her pretty quiet. Doing a good job, Vaughn thought, surprised at the relief he felt. If he had to leave Sydney and Sarah, there was nobody else he'd trust to take care of them more than Weiss.

That didn't mean he was ready to let go.

"Lauren didn't die quickly. It took her a while, even with six bullets in her. Who thought she would have been that strong?" Sark cocked his head. "Have I remembered your words exactly?"

Vaughn remembered retelling Lauren's death, realized anew how sick he'd been, to enjoy that memory. "Just about."

"Then let me fill in my half of the conversation, the part I didn't dare say then." With a snap, Sark's foot slammed into the small of Vaughn's back. Over Vaughn's growl of pain, Sark continued, "I knew Lauren was that strong. Not all that smart, I'll grant you, but she had good instincts, and will, and ambition. And – though you've been remarkably slow about realizing it – she was on the right side."

"The fuck she was," Vaughn said, earning himself a fist in the jaw.

"Have you learned nothing? No, I don't suppose you have." Sark folded his arms, studying Vaughn as though he were a laboratory specimen. "Lauren worked for the Covenant. While you and your lot were still blissfully ignorant of even the threat of the Rain of Gold, Lauren was working to find and destroy the source. She might have succeeded, and saved literally millions of lives, if only you'd gotten the hell out of her way."

Vaughn knew there was truth there, but it left out so much more. "Not even you are delusional enough to think that the Covenant is a philanthropic organization. So don't think you're going to convince me. You people lie, cheat, steal and kill, all to get Rambaldi's power for yourselves. The Rain of Gold interferes with that. Otherwise, you'd be cheering it on."

"We aren't in the realm of might-have-been, Vaughn. We're in a reality where Lauren's cause was just – whether you like it or not. And you don't like it, do you?"

Once again, Sark's fist slammed into his jaw, and Vaughn sensed the interview drawing to a close. If something didn't happen, and in the next few seconds, he was going to die.

A stirring from the closet suggested that Weiss was trying something with the door, but the prospect filled Vaughn not with hope but with dread. Don't do it, he thought, willing some kind of telepathy to kick in between him and Weiss. To hell with me. Keep Sarah safe.

Sark stared at Vaughn's mouth and smiled. "You said that Lauren had blood bubbling up on her lips, just before the end. Something husband and wife had in common, I see." He reached out and brushed along Vaughn's lips with one finger – then traced around his own mouth, painting crimson streaks like lipstick. "But I'm going to tell you a very special secret." Leaning very close to Vaughn's ear, he whispered, "I'm going to let you live."

Vaughn was unconvinced. "Spare me the mind games."

"No mind game – or, shall we say, a very different one than you think." Sark folded his arms and smiled. "I want you to live, Vaughn. And I want you to know that you live not because you were stronger, or smarter, or more able. You live because Lauren's lover let you live."

As Vaughn stared, Sark continued, "Every morning you awaken, every night you go to sleep, every time you hold your child in your arms, remember that, for the sake of Lauren's memory, I could have taken it all away. And for the sake of Lauren's memory, I did not. I want you to live, remembering her. I want you to carry that weight forever."

"You son of a bitch –"

Sark leaned forward and kissed Vaughn on the forehead; he could feel the stickiness of his own blood against his skin. "You're welcome."

**

"You – you have to be my father." Nadia couldn't stop looking at Papa. Even when she was angry, even when she'd known how profoundly he'd betrayed her – part of her had still longed to believe in him. She had still loved him, no matter what he'd done – because he was her father. That was true, the way up was down, or night followed day. It couldn't be a lie.

"They didn't tell you?" Papa cocked his head. "A cruel joke. Then again, maybe Jack Bristow doesn't have the kind of heart that would allow for more than one child's love."

He believed it. He absolutely believed it. Could it be true?

For only an instant, she glanced over Papa's shoulder, at Sydney. She could read the truth in Sydney's eyes. Her father had been lied to about this. Nadia had no more to do with Jack Bristow than any other person on the earth. Arvin Sloane remained her Papa.

"They shouldn't have lied to you," Papa said, and it sounded as though he really meant it.

All she had to do was say the word, and he would believe her again. She could convince him, make him understand. And if she had not seen his coldness, his fury, his ugliness – Nadia knew she might have done it. The lure of Rambaldi was still strong; even more powerful was her desire for unconditional love.

But she knew now that Papa's – that Sloane's love was conditional. The love she'd sought all her life was worthless. Dust and ashes.

"They told me," Nadia said, forcing a proud smile. "Just wanted to see if you were still gullible, old man. And you are."

His face darkened as he stepped closer to her, and for the first time Nadia understood how he could take human life. "Your ingratitude –"

Nadia spun into a roundhouse kick with her left leg, catching the nearest guard in the throat, even as she punched out with her right fist. Sloane doubled over, retching. She could hear Sydney going after the other guard, but Nadia had no time to observe or help; her own fight was at hand, and if the guard got hold of his gun –

She took him down, both of them sprawling on the floor, and her sweat-damp palms slipped on the gun's barrel. But he was dazed, and Nadia was strong. As Sloane came up by then, ready to take his own action, Nadia wrested the weapon away and spun it toward his face.

"Nadia, don't!" Sydney called. She must have won her fight too.

Kill him or not? Why should Sydney care? Nadia told herself that it didn't matter if he was her father.

"You won't do it," Sloane said. "You care about Rambaldi's work, if nothing else. And you know I'm your only pathway back to him."

The dreams that had haunted her lifetime were now illumination. Nadia said, "I'm my own pathway."

Then she smashed Sloane in the face with the rifle. He went down, unconscious, and Nadia stared down at him. She still didn't know to feel – or if she could feel anything for this man now.

"You didn't do it," Sydney said as she came to Nadia's size. She had a red welt on her forehead that was going to swell, but otherwise looked fine. "I'm glad you didn't."

"Why? Because it would make me a killer? We're all killers, sooner or later."

"I know. That's not what I meant. Sloane might eventually be convinced to tell us why they fed us a false prophecy."

Nadia stared at her. "Don't you know? Haven't you figured it out?"

Sydney stared right back. "You have?"

Maybe if you hadn't had the dreams all your life, the leap of logic wasn't that simple. Or maybe the later visions, the ones revealed under the influence of the Rambaldi serum, were necessary to make it clear. No matter the reason, Nadia could read the truth as easily as though it were written in a book.

"The unity of opposites," Nadia said. "That's important to Rambaldi. Man meeting machine, life meeting death. He likes duality." It felt surprisingly easy to speak of Rambaldi in the present tense.

"Duality?"

"They made up the false prophecy to keep us apart, Sydney. Why would they want to keep us apart?" She took Sydney's hand in hers for the first time, pleased that her grip was so strong and sure. "If we were together, we might be able to test our DNA together."

"Together. A synthesis." The gears were spinning now, and a smile began to spread across Sydney's face. "You mean – Sarah's not the cure. I'm not the cure."

Nadia held up their joined hands. "We're the cure."

**


	25. Chapter 25

II.

 

Had Jack had the time to spend on such matters, he might have discussed at length the profound lack of judgment displayed by Mr. Weiss and the battered Mr. Vaughn in allowing Sark anywhere near a weapons area – not to mention taking Sarah with them. But his anger had been undercut by Vaughn's quiet refusal of medical help.

"Jenny should stay with Irina," he'd said, wincing while Weiss started wrapping up his bleeding toe. "Sark didn't do anything that's going to leave lasting damage. Irina needs the help more."

Jack had had to pay close attention to the baby in his arms to conceal his reaction to Irina's name. As far as Sarah was concerned, the crisis had passed some time ago; she drowsed peacefully against Jack's chest, tiny mouth puckering as she dreamed of food.

In reality, Jack cared little about Sark's betrayal and escape, Vaughn's kindness, even the unexpected unity between Sydney's two lovers. Sark was gone, Sarah was safe, and that meant he could only think about the fact that Irina was dying.

He had spent more than half his life convinced he had already lost her, and he'd thought he had felt that pain to its fullest long ago. But he'd been wrong. Losing her hurt as much the last time as it had the first, and the second, and the third.

Once the ship was secure and Sarah placed to nap beside her father, Jack hurried back to the cabin. He found Jenny sitting at Irina's bedside, taking her pulse. Irina was motionless; even her hair lay in the same fever-damp tendrils as when he had left. He remembered her place on the bed as completely and accurately as any map he'd studied – the curve of her wrist against the blanket, the way her toes turned in, the pale, untroubled expanse of her forehead.

Her chest rose and fell, too fast and too shallow. At least he'd gotten back in time.

"No change," Dr. Lo said, unnecessarily. Jack left her to her work. On one level he almost wished the doctor weren't there; Irina was long past responding to his presence, but Jack might have found some comfort in lying next to her. He could not do so in front of the doctor, and that seemed to him not a weakness but a fact.

Sydney was gone, and Irina was going, and there was nothing for him to do – not just now, but for the rest of what promised to be his horribly extended life -- but stand and watch and wait.

Exhausted, he took his place in the chair across the room. As he sank down, Dr. Lo said, "You ought to eat something, you know. You've run yourself ragged."

"It can wait."

"I'll bring you a tray later on." That was as close as Dr. Lo had come to arguing with him. Jack let it pass.

What was the last thing Irina had said to him? He hadn't realized it was the last, nor had she. It was something inconsequential, something about the rain that had begun coming down outside. Now it pounded against the portholes, not quite monsoon-strength but close enough. Jack tried to tell himself that Irina would have liked the idea of departing in the heart of a storm.

A knock disturbed and annoyed him. "What?"

The guard opened the door just a crack, intruding as little as possible. "Long-range infrared picks up a vehicle headed toward us. The port's almost deserted – it could be anyone, but –"

"On my way." Only a threat to Sarah could have pulled him away now, but a threat was precisely what they were faced with. No shipping merchant would be out in this panic or in this storm.

But he hesitated just long enough for Dr. Lo to notice. Quietly, she said, "Irina won't know."

I'll know, Jack thought. But there was nothing for it, if Sarah's safety was at risk.

He hurried up to the rain-swept observation deck, hoping against hope this could be dealt with quickly. It would be just like Irina to slip out when he wasn't looking.

"They're within visual range now," the guard said. Rain had beaded up on his olive-green poncho, and Jack wished he'd taken the same precaution as water soaked through his shirt. "Just barely – this storm cuts down on visibility – but it looks like a single Jeep, two to three passengers, no convoy –"

Jack took the binoculars from him and peered into the gray wet. Sheets of rain blurred lines and created movement where there was none. But he glimpsed the Jeep, moving toward them – two passengers, at least that he could see – one of them bending out to peer around the windshield, as though that would help them see –

"Sydney."

"Sir?" The guard, who had never seen the ten-year-old Sydney's inability to keep a car window rolled up during summertime, looked unconvinced. "Agent Bristow, at this distance, visual ID –"

Jack shoved the binoculars back at him. "Lower the gangplank," he ordered, and without another word he began hurrying down. Let the guards think he was wrong or crazy. He knew his daughter was coming home.

As he made his way down the steps, gripping metal railings to fight the slippery decks and gusting winds, Jack realized that his ankle wasn't hurting – just the sight of Sydney had numbed him to any pain. He was glad for it as he made his way down the gangplank, just as the Jeep entered unaided visual range, great plumes of mud rising from its tires. This way, he didn't need a cane to come out to her; he didn't have to wait one single unnecessary second before ---

"Dad!" Her voice rang out above the thunder, and then he saw her: soaked to the skin, hair plastered against her scalp. Behind the wheel, Nadia braked hard, slopping mud against his shoes. Jack didn't care, not when Sydney jumped out of the Jeep and ran into his arms.

He couldn't hug her tightly enough. She was back. Sydney was back. "You made it," he said, cradling her face in his hands. Her smile made the raindrops run down her cheeks, and the sight of it repaired something deep inside he'd thought was broken forever. "Sweetheart, you made it."

"You let me go."

"I love you." He hadn't said that to her in a very long time, something he'd remembered every hour since her departure. As soon as he'd blurted it out, he felt awkward, but perhaps it didn't matter. "I wanted you to know that."

"I do know. And I love you too." Sydney's smile vanished in an instant as she clutched his shirt. "Mom – is she –"

"She's still alive."

"We made it in time." She took his hands in hers, as if trying to impress her newfound knowledge through his very skin. "Dad, we brought back some of the vaccine, but we also think we've figured out the cure. We need Marshall, now."

Jack had never realized how stupefying hope could be; it slowed his thinking and froze his body – for only a second, but longer than anything else had ever had the power to do. "Yes," he finally managed to say. "Marshall's still working in the lab. Go to him –"

"We both go." Sydney reached back out toward Nadia, who was walking tentatively toward them. "The cure's both of us, Dad. A synthesis of our DNA – the cure isn't the opposite of the disease, it's part of it – do you see?"

He didn't, but he trusted Sydney. "Just go. Marshall will understand."

Nadia spoke, her intensity reminding him strongly of Irina. "We brought someone back with us – you should see."

He followed her gaze to see Arvin Sloane, bound in the back of the Jeep, unconscious in the rain. In his relief at seeing Sydney, Jack had not grabbed a gun on his way off the ship. If he had, he knew he would have placed the muzzle against Sloane's forehead and blown him away. It was the only thing that could have made this moment sweeter.

Then he glanced back at Sydney, sopping wet and beaming at him through the rain, and decided the moment didn't need any improvement at all. "The guards will throw Sloane in a cell," he said. "We have more important things to do."

**

"You two have blown my mind, and that, my friends, is not easily done." Marshall was typing so fast that Jack half expected the keyboard to begin giving off sparks. "I never tried configuring this model to read for two DNA strands instead of one. And the thing is, the two DNA strands would have to be really, really similar – but yours are, what with the whole sisterhood thing and all."

"It's about duality," Nadia said, toweling her hair. The band-aid in the crook of her elbow was unnaturally pale against her olive skin. Jack was unaccustomed to hearing anyone speak of Rambaldi with such matter-of-fact certainty; more common reactions were religious fervor or pure confusion. Perhaps Nadia was the only one who had ever really understood – because she was the one meant to understand. "Rambaldi always created both halves: strength and weakness, man and machine, cure and disease."

Sydney held the cotton pad against her own elbow, frowning. "I still don't understand. If Rambaldi wanted to cure the Rain of Gold, why did he create it in the first place?"

Nadia sat down opposite her, and Jack was struck again by the similarity of their profiles, their posture, even the way they sat. "Think about how much of Rambaldi's power we're only now learning to use – the devices, the DNA, all of it. For centuries, humanity was safe from Rambaldi's works only because nobody possessed the knowledge to create them. I think – I think Rambaldi meant the Rain of Gold to be a test."

"Of what?" Jack didn't understand. "Technological capability?"

"He could have used anything for that," Nadia replied. "No, Rambaldi wanted to know if his followers would be the kind of people who would use his creations to do great good or great evil. That's why he exaggerated the immunities people could expect from their bloodlines. The Rain of Gold – immortality – that was the temptation. If his followers were willing to kill billions to save their own lives, then Rambaldi knew they couldn't be trusted with his power."

"The plague would have killed everyone," Sydney whispered. "Nobody would have been truly immune. Rambaldi would have destroyed the whole world –"

"In one great fire, rather than let his followers use his work to do it over decades. But he knew that if others had the power and the ability to stop them – if they valued the cure more than immortality – then there were people in the world who could be trusted with his work. And with the Passenger intended to interpret it." Nadia's smile was tired. "And with the older sister whose greater destiny is still waiting."

Jack stared at her; what had Nadia's dreams shown her about Sydney?

He had no time to ask before the door swung open, revealing the rain-soaked forms of Vaughn and Weiss. Quickly Jack took Sarah from Vaughn's arms, allowing him to embrace Sydney. "Your face," she whispered. "Vaughn, you're hurt. What happened?"

"Sark. He escaped. I'm fine, and Sarah's fine. The rest doesn't matter."

To Jack's surprise, Sydney then turned from Vaughn to hug Weiss, just as tightly and passionately as she had for Vaughn. Weiss didn't seem to know whether to return the embrace or dodge it, but he settled for putting his hands gingerly on her back. Then Vaughn, instead of punching Weiss, put his arms around Nadia for a moment, long enough to make her beam up at him.

This situation would require complex analysis. Later.

Marshall was staring at the four of them with raised eyebrows, but when the computer chimed, he spun back to the monitor. "Yes. Oh, yes. That's right, baby. Come to Papa."

"Have you got it?" Sydney stepped closer, staring at the rotating strands of DNA even as she retrieved Sarah from Jack's arms, preparing to nurse her.

"I think we have ourselves a winner, sports fans." Marshall hit a couple of keys, and the centrifuge began whirling. "Hang on."

Hang on, Jack repeated in his mind, knowing Irina could not hear.

**

III.

 

While Marshall worked, Vaughn watched Sydney for a long time; she was nursing Sarah, who obviously liked this much better than his fumbling attempts with the bottle. For her part, Sydney seemed profoundly relieved, leaning her head back against the wall as she held the baby close. When her eyes were open, she was studying Marshall's computer screen, still intent on the cure she'd risked her life to find.

That made it okay for Vaughn to watch her, to gather his own thoughts. And to watch Weiss watching her.

The best thing about it was that the love in Weiss' face wasn't just for Sydney; Vaughn could see that it was for Sarah, too – for both of them. That was the worst thing about it, too.

"I want you to carry that weight forever," Sark had said. He'd been more right than he knew. Vaughn didn't have any trouble letting go of Lauren, or for that matter anything done on her behalf. Her memory wouldn't haunt him. But the memory of the man Vaughn had become from hatred of her – that would haunt him for a long time to come. Maybe even forever.

Weiss wasn't haunted like that, and he never would be. It wasn't in his nature.

Maybe sensing Vaughn's eyes on him, Weiss turned away from Sydney. "Guys, I'm gonna go wait with Jack and Nadia. See you in there." He was out of the room in a shot.

"All righty," Marshall said, more to the spinning DNA strands in front of him than the others in the room. "I'm gonna grab some extra equipment for this puppy. Get the next batch started as soon as this one's done."

Vaughn offered, "I can go –"

"No, no. I know where it is. You guys just keep an eye on this, okay?" Marshall ran out into the rain, and finally they were alone.

Finally. It felt like he'd been waiting to say this for weeks, not as if he hadn't just realized it. "We ought to talk."

"Yeah, I know. Now that we actually have a future, we have to face it." Sydney offered a finger for Sarah to grasp as she nursed, still looking down at their daughter. "I kept thinking I'd know what I wanted to say. And I still don't."

"What you wanted to say." That choice of words was important. "Not what you wanted to decide."

Sydney finally met his eyes, still and sure. "No. I've known that for a while now."

It helped that his next words were the truth: "That's what I chose, too. For us to – to go our own ways."

That sounded softer than "break up." And yet it sounded truer as well.

She nodded, and Vaughn had sworn to himself a dozen times that when this moment came, he wouldn't cry. He kept that promise, though it was difficult as Sydney said, "It's not that I don't still love you, Vaughn. I do. I always will. And Sarah –"

"—is the best thing that ever happened in our lives," Vaughn finished for her. "I'm always going to love you too, Sydney. But too much happened. We got split too far apart. It wasn't something we did; it's something that was done to us. And it never should have happened – but it happened. We can't pretend it didn't."

He wasn't even sure he was the same man who'd fallen in love with Sydney all those years ago; he didn't know if he could find that kind of hope and trust in his heart ever again. If he could, he intended to give every bit of that energy to being Sarah's dad. Sydney needed someone stable, someone with his feet rooted into the earth, somebody who knew who he was. Vaughn wasn't ever going to be that guy again.

But he knew who could.

"You and Weiss – it's going to be hard, for me. I can't help that."

"I haven't talked to Eric. I couldn't, not until I'd talked to you."

"But you love him." She nodded, and it was easier than Vaughn would've thought to smile. "If I have to lose you to anybody, I'm glad it's him."

She started to blink back tears, either because of his words about Weiss or what she had to say. "And you – you and Nadia?"

"Oh, God. I don't know." Whatever he had with Nadia was as the harder, more broken man he was now. Nadia had seen that in him and responded to it, which was either a really good sign or a really bad one. Could it be both? "I can't even think about that yet."

"Well, I like her," Sydney said. "But – yeah. It's going to take a while." They both ended up staring down at Sarah for a few minutes; their baby was still nursing hungrily, as though he'd never fed her at all. "We'll always share her."

"Always."

"I just – I wanted to say -- after Danny, when I didn't think I could find a reason to go on, you saved me. Everything about me that really mattered – I held on to that because of you." Tears were running down her face again as she finished, "Vaughn – thank you. For loving me, and being there."

It will never really be over, Vaughn thought. No matter how long we live, no matter how happy she is with Weiss or I learn to be with Nadia or whoever – this is always going to be between us.

He didn't know if that was a burden or a gift. Maybe time would tell.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he got out of his chair and kissed Sydney, hard and deep, like it was the beginning instead of the end. It hurt, knowing it was the last time, but Vaughn wasn't sorry.

**

IV.

 

Her head hurt.

That was the first thing Irina was sure of. She couldn't remember if the headache was the result of jet lag or a fight or an especially good vintage of Bordeaux, but it didn't feel serious. Some painkiller would take care of it.

Could she get up from bed without waking Jack and take a few Bayer tablets in the bathroom? Wait – no. That was long ago. She would have to ask the prison matron for some – and if the matron didn't bring it up with Cuvee, no painkillers would be forthcoming. Maybe not even if she did talk to Cuvee; he liked to leave Irina in pain, sometimes. No, that was wrong too. Was she in Katya's home in Vladivostok? Surely she would be able to smell breakfast cooking if she were. In a campsite? On a plane? In her cell at the CIA?

"Irina, can you hear me?"

That was Jack's voice. Maybe she was at home after all. Maybe all those years were only a dream.

"Mom?" That was Sydney – but she wasn't a little girl, not any longer. And Irina could hear the soft cooing of a baby.

Sarah.

Irina knew where she was, and when she was, and in that moment she realized that by all rights she should be dead. But instead, she felt – awful, but better.

She opened her eyes; the light hurt, and when she winced, Jack called, "Flip the switch." Then the room turned a more soothing gray, but she could still see Jack and Sydney sitting on either side of her, Sarah in Sydney's arms. Nadia stood at the foot of the bed, beside Marshall and the doctor; Vaughn and Weiss were at the door. Each of them wore the same half-disbelieving smile – except for Jack, whose still face could not hide the relief and happiness in his eyes.

"You found the cure," she said. Her voice hurt in her throat.

"Just in time," Marshall said. "We were originally looking for something with a structure similar to an antiviral drug, like AZT to the max, but it turns out the cure's a virus too. Just a virus that goes in and wipes out the Rain of Gold, first thing. Pretty freakin' cool. Also, wow, quick. We only dosed you a couple hours ago."

As he babbled, Irina felt Jack's hand close over hers. She still felt wrung-out and weak, but she was able to lace their fingers together. She should be dead; Irina had never been unable to understand her absence from the later Rambaldi prophecies in any other way. But maybe, instead, it was evidence that Rambaldi had finally let her go.

For the first time in her life, she was truly free.

Everyone began narrating the story of the last few hours – the cure was both Sydney and Nadia, apparently, and Sark had done something she'd need to discuss with him later, on and on – but the words tumbled past her as she simply held Jack's hand. He alone was silent, watching her as though he still thought she might slip away.

It was Sydney's voice that first stood out from the clamor and formed a definite impression in Irina's mind. "We have to deliver the cure worldwide in a matter of weeks. Days would be better. Do we have the resources to do that?"

"We tell the world media, set up vaccination stations – this isn't exactly a vaccine, I guess, but same difference." Weiss ran one hand through his hair; he looked less tired than any of the others, which meant he looked exhausted. "It depends on how fast we can make the stuff, I guess."

"Tricky," Marshall said. "Even with our two willing guinea pigs here – sorry, Syd, Nadia – it's gonna take a while to create as much as we'd need for everyone. I guess we'd need to start with the sickest people first. How do we figure out who those are?"

"Assuming everyone would accept them," Jack said. "Some nations don't have the infrastructure or cultural background to accept mass inoculation. Some would assume it was a Western plot – another means of spreading the Rain of Gold, not ending it."

Thank God these people got to me in time, Irina thought. Otherwise, they'd never figure out what to do. "You don't have to make much," she rasped. "It's a virus. It reproduces itself. Get it out into the populace, and it will spread of its own accord."

Marshall lit up. "You mean – basically, we give the whole world cowpox, and then they never have to worry about smallpox again."

"We still have to create enough to start the contagion," Nadia said. "But we can start now, if Marshall's ready."

"Marshall has more important things to do," Irina insisted. She squeezed Jack's hand; understanding, he helped her sit up. The room wobbled for a moment, but she leaned against his shoulder as she got her bearings again. "Did none of you ever ask yourselves why I'd spent so much time working with biological weapons?"

Sydney's eyes went wide. "You were looking for something like this?"

To Irina's surprise, it was Vaughn who grasped the essential point first. "And you figured out how to incubate an enormous amount of bioweapon material quickly." He looked at Sydney as he continued, "The Mueller device. The one that nearly drowned us, the one that made me sick five years ago. Remember?"

"Like I could forget an enormous C-clamp with a ball of water the size of a three-story building." Sydney's sarcasm belied the smile spreading across her face. "If we build one of those –"

"You'll have all the raw material you need within two days," Irina said.

"This is all great news," Weiss said, "but we can't exactly order a Rambaldi artifact from the Sharper Image catalog."

"Hello? Seen the blueprints. Photographic memory." Marshall pointed at his head. "Lead me to the spare parts, people. It's MacGyver time."

**

V.

 

Sydney muttered, "It's bigger than I remembered."

She stared up at the vast red circumference of the Mueller Device. The enormous globe at the center rotated, heavy and mysterious; within it, Sydney could hear the slow currents of water that formed its tides. This was the first Rambaldi device she'd ever seen – the first and, ultimately, the greatest. Because this was the one that was curing the Rain of Gold.

"See this?" she said to Sarah, who was staring raptly at the big red ball. "Your grandmother made this."

What the hell, Sydney figured. I won't ever get to say that about a pan of brownies.

Marshall had managed to reconstruct a Mueller device in only a few days. Her mother gave instructions from her sickbed; whenever Jenny popped a thermometer in her mouth, Mom simply scribbled notes or blueprints with her free hand. Within a week, they'd been able to start distribution – and even now, the cure was spreading through the United States and Southeast Asia. Tomorrow's shipment would get progress started in Australia and Europe, moving ever outward, most affected to least, until the world was finally clean of Sloane's evil.

Sloane remained in his makeshift cell deep within the hold of the nearby ship. Sydney had not seen him; if she ever did, she would want her family with her. All of her family, so Sloane could see that he had been unable to rip them apart –

\--all except Sarah. Sydney was determined that Sloane should never see her daughter at all.

"There you are."

Sydney half-turned to see her father coming toward her. "Dad. Is Mom okay?" Usually her father didn't leave her mother's side unless it was necessary.

"Fine. Even better today. She's walking around the cabin by herself now." He paused, then admitted, "She threatened me if I didn't give her some private time."

"And it won't be long before she can back it up," Sydney said. "So you made a tactical retreat."

"Precisely." Her father hadn't realized she was joking, which just made it funnier; Sydney cuddled Sarah a little closer in order to give herself an excuse for grinning. "So I thought I would come find you. Both of you."

Without further prompting, Sydney settled Sarah in Dad's arms. Sarah blinked up at him for a moment, then returned her attention to the ever-fascinating Mueller device. Sydney profoundly hoped that this was just a newborn's natural response to the color red, and not some nascent Derevko attraction to all things Rambaldi.

Dad only had eyes for Sarah. "She looks so much like your mother. And like you."

"But with your curly hair." It was a better inheritance than the ears, Sydney thought. "So, when we get back to Los Angeles, can I count on you for babysitting?"

She meant it as a joke, and was instantly humbled when her father simply nodded. "Certainly."

"You seem like the last person in the world who'd like babies. But you do, don't you?"

Her father considered that for a moment. "Babies are – uncomplicated."

"Got it."

All at once Sydney remembered that Dixon had said something like that once, long ago when they were first working together and Stephen was no more than a toddler. She could hear his deep voice, comforting and strong as they flew back from one of their early missions – Shanghai, perhaps, or Milan. "Children center you, Sydney. When they're little – you can figure out what they need, and give it to them. And nothing else can make you as happy as being able to take care of the person you love most in the world."

If only she could have shown Sarah to Dixon. If only she'd had a chance to see her Aunt Katya once again, after learning the truth. And Carrie, and Judy Barnett, so many thousands that she'd never known – it was all such a waste. And for all the courage and intelligence her parents had shown, Sydney knew that if they had made different decisions, if they had been less guarded, less obsessed with their own pasts, none of this might ever have had to happen.

But if they had been any less strong, Sloane might have won after all.

"Are you all right?" Dad asked, concerned by her silence. She wondered if he missed the days when he could care for her as easily as he did for Sarah – when food and warmth and shelter were all she could need, and she couldn't know how imperfect his love for her would always be. Probably he did.

"Just remembering who we've lost." Sydney shook her head. "It's going to be hard, going back to Los Angeles and not finding any of them there."

"When we return home, will Vaughn be – traveling with you?" This was as close as Dad had come to prying into her love life.

"No. He won't. That's what we both decided."

Her father looked suspicious of Vaughn – what else was new? – but not angry. "Then – you and Weiss –"

"I hope so. Eric and I haven't had a chance to talk. He took off with that first shipment, and I haven't spoken to him yet. After we all meet up in California – then I'll know more." It was just like Eric, to bury himself in work so he could forget a broken heart. Sydney hoped he'd come back soon so she could unbreak that heart, and hers too. "When we go back to L.A., everything will have changed."

"We'll have a lot of work to do. But it's past time we took Sarah home." What was it about a grandchild that made it easier for her father to smile than he ever had for his daughter? Sydney thought she might've been jealous, if it weren't for her own happiness as her father tested Sarah's weight in his arms. "She's growing so fast."

"Big strong healthy girl," Sydney said with pride. "Already her newborn clothes don't fit her anymore. It breaks my heart."

"She'll never stop changing. But she'll always be your daughter."

Sydney knew who her father was really talking about, though he never met her eyes. Maybe Dad would never stop camouflaging his love for her behind a mission or duty or their shared love for Sarah, but that was all right. His disguises didn't hide the truth from her any longer.

 

THE END


	26. Epilogue

_If I, if I have been unkind  
I hope that you can just let it go by  
If I, if I have been untrue  
I hope you know it was never to you_

_Like a baby stillborn  
Like a beast with his horn  
I have torn everyone who reached out for me  
But I swear by this song  
And by all that I have done wrong  
I will make it all up to thee_

\--"Bird on a Wire," Leonard Cohen

 

IRENICON: Epilogue

 

I.

 

**Cairo, Egypt**

 

"The first coffee we've had in three weeks, sir."

The steaming cup before Sark looked as inviting as any desert oasis. "Thank you." He took his first sip – invigorating and scalding hot – as he examined the English-language paper the hotel had provided.

AMERICAN AIRSPACE TO BE REOPENED TOMORROW

STOCK MARKETS REBOUND ON CONTINUED DROP IN INFECTION RATES

RECOVERING KING CARLOS OF SPAIN GREETS CROWDS FROM BALCONY

"Wonderful, isn't it?" said the little woman next to him, an aged Briton with a cardigan in colors so bright they hurt Sark's eyes. "And here I thought my holiday wasn't ever going to end. Didn't much like the thought at the time. Suppose I'll change my mind, won't I?"

"Yes, it's marvelous news," Sark replied, hoping to ignore her henceforth. But he could feel his own spirits rising.

He'd come to Cairo to wait out the fall of civilization; the Pyramids seemed as appropriate a setting as any, and in the chaos to follow, consolidating control in the Mediterranean region would have been his first step toward opposing Sloane. But instead, the situation had become no worse – and, slowly, just a little bit better. People in the streets spoke of miracles, or of secret cures; most of them simply thought the Bloodsight plague had run its course, as diseases do.

Sark knew that the Bristow party had found the cure – within Sarah after all, or perhaps in Sydney herself. He wondered if that cure had come in time to save Irina Derevko. No doubt he would find out eventually.

In the meantime, virtually the entire ranks of the Covenant, the Triad and K Directorate had been destroyed; their attempts at vaccines or treatments had by and large devastated them, thus proving that a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. Just consider, Sark thought – all those weapons warehouses, all those Swiss accounts: millions in cash and materiel, just waiting for someone to come along and claim it.

Thanks to the Rain of Gold, Sark was one of the very few individuals remaining who knew where most of that treasure was located. Thanks to the cure Sydney and her family had provided, Sark still had a civilized world in which to use his new power – and use it he would.

Best of all: Wherever Arvin Sloane was, chances were that the man was having a truly horrible day.

"Don't you look cheery, then." The old lady gave him a beatific, grandmotherly smile.

Sark held his coffee cup up to her in a toast and said, with as straight a face as he could manage, "Today is the first day of the rest of my life."

She patted his arm. "That's the spirit, dear."

 

**

 

II.

 

First, the plan had been for all four of them – Sydney, Nadia, Irina and Jack – to confront Sloane together before he was put on the helicopter that would take him away from their ship, the first leg of his journey back to the U.S. for trial. Better to go as a family, Sydney had said.

That meant continuing the lie that Nadia was Jack's daughter – a falsehood he found more disquieting than he should have – but Jack had agreed. It was Nadia who had refused.

"I'm not ready to see him again yet," she had explained, holding her niece against her chest. "Maybe that's weak, but I don't care."

"Knowing your vulnerabilities is its own strength," Irina had said, and Nadia had smiled gratefully. They were becoming more truly mother and daughter – which meant, Jack supposed, he had better find a way to get used to the girl.

After Nadia's decision, Sydney's own enthusiasm for the idea faded. As Jack had walked her back to her cabin that night, she'd said, "If I even hear Sloane say one word about Sarah, I might lose it. I mean it – I could kill him."

"You wouldn't," Jack had said. He didn't add that this was because he would beat her to it.

"I'm not going to risk it. Sloane's not worth the trouble." Then she had kissed Jack on the cheek just to say goodnight, which was the more memorable part of the evening.

Finally, that morning, Irina had made her choice. "You should go without me."

"Why?"

She raised an eyebrow. "So you'll know that I'm not afraid of anything Sloane could tell you while I'm not there to hear."

"I trust you," Jack said. The statement still seemed extraordinary; certainly it still made Irina smile.

"Then trust my decision. Go say your farewells; I think you need it. None of the rest of us do."

And so Jack walked alone from the ship to the cleared area they'd turned into a makeshift heliport. Two of the guards already stood there, Sloane between them, a small figure with his hands awkwardly trussed together. Jack had expected to feel a surge of anger, or at least contempt; instead, he felt almost nothing.

This man was your friend, Jack thought, waiting for the fury to ignite. He lied to your wife to get her into bed. He deceived you and Sydney, and he's responsible for the deaths of Marcus Dixon and Judy Barnett -- and Katya – and thousands more besides. He tried to kill your daughter, and he would have tried to kill your granddaughter.

But he'd failed. Jack had no way to defeat Sloane further; the man was already utterly beaten.

As he reached the guards, Jack motioned for them to put Sloane in the helicopter. They did so, leaving plenty of room for Jack to slide in and join Sloane for the trip. Sloane's eyes sought Jack's, knowing and sad, still brimming with dodges and games and secrets that just might be true.

Once the guards had stepped away to circle over to the other side, they were, in essence, alone: Sloane in the helicopter, Jack standing at the door.

Sloane said, "You think you've won, don't you?"

Jack considered that before replying. "Yes."

Then he slammed the door shut and walked away. When the helicopter blades started spinning, Jack didn't turn around; he just enjoyed the breeze in his hair.

 

III.

 

**Los Angeles, California**

 

Five weeks ago, they'd gotten the Mueller device going and made the first delivery of material to Langley. In order to get himself off the ship – and away from Syd and Vaughn – as fast as possible, Eric had volunteered to be one of the initial delivery agents. As a result, he'd gotten a good chance to see just how the world was reacting to what could've been Armageddon, but wasn't. Already, newspapers were beginning to print optimistic stories about natural immunities. "Doomsayers Proved Wrong," one British paper had proclaimed, and a few had even pointed out that, in the end, the Bloodsight hadn't even been as lethal as the flu pandemic of 1918. The panic had been evidence of lack of preparation, no more. They were all completely wrong, and Eric had never been gladder.

But the mission could only hold off the inevitable for so long. Eventually – no way around it – he had to go home.

When he walked in the door of his L.A. apartment, the stale, musty air nearly choked him. Sure, he could air the place out – but that would eventually mean getting reacquainted with the neighbors whose last memory was of him flashing a badge at the "murder scene" a year ago. Well, at least the neighbors who were still alive. Besides, this place was Sydney-haunted: He could envision her mixing margaritas at the bar, nursing a cold in front of his TV while he brought her chicken soup, or just knocking on the door to say hi.

It wasn't like she'd still be his neighbor any longer; Jack had moved all Sydney's stuff into storage at the time of the big Antarctica trip – and surely she and Vaughn would want a bigger place, now that they had Sarah. But Eric needed a fresh start.

Maybe he ought to put in for a transfer. He'd always been kind of interested in the Miami office –

A knock sounded on the door, startling him. Who the hell even knew he was back? His flight had landed about four hours ago. Eric took one last despairing look into the congealed stuff in his freezer, shook his head, and went to the door.

"Hi," Sydney said.

She wasn't standing on the stoop, so she had to crane her neck to look up at him. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, her face clean-scrubbed; he'd told her one time, in Antarctica, that he found her most beautiful that way. At the time he'd thought it was a tactful lie – this was a really bad time to figure out it was the absolute truth. Then Eric realized just how long he'd stood there staring at her like an idiot. "Um. Hi."

"You're home." Sydney smiled, a little uncertainly. "I had asked Dad to let me know your scheduled arrival. In case you were wondering –"

"How you knew to come by. Right." Eric hoped this didn't come out wrong, but he had to ask: "I guess the question is why you wanted to come by."

"Just wanted to talk." She put one hand on the doorjamb, so close to his own that he imagined he could feel the heat of her skin on his. The white shirt she wore revealed that her shape had pretty much returned to normal gorgeous Sydney Bristow dimensions; it had been a long time since he'd seen Sydney's waist. But that just made him think about putting his hands there, which was totally not the way to go. "Can I come in?"

Say no, he thought. This is just going to turn into another whole kiss-me-goodbye scenario, where you get a really good chance to realize just what you've lost.

But Sydney was looking up at him, her whole heart in her face. Sometimes he was really good at saying no to her, but sometimes she just turned him into a big pile of mush. "Sure."

She sat on the couch after he did, not directly beside him but still too close for comfort. Then again, anywhere in the Northern Hemisphere was too close, these days. And he'd still want Sydney if she were on the moon, which was where she might as well be. "So, what have you been up to?" He knew his cheer sounded forced, but that was pretty much all he had to offer. "You and Vaughn hanging out with the bambina?"

"I have been. Vaughn's not back yet." At Eric's questioning look, Sydney continued, "My mother and Nadia wanted to take the long way back; they're traveling through Russia, wrapping up some business of Katya's, I think. Vaughn went with them."

Okay, that was just about the weirdest thing Eric had ever heard. He asked the least potentially incendiary question he could think of: "So who's got Sarah right now?"

Sydney's cheeks dimpled up. "Her grandpa, who swears he can handle a six-week old baby for a few hours. We'll see what shape he's in later on."

"Jack Bristow versus Sarah, huh? He may have met his match." Eric liked that idea, but the whole Derevko trip sounded ominous. "I guess Vaughn's – watching your mother."

"Guarding her, you mean? No. She doesn't need to be guarded."

"Don't get mad at me for saying it, okay? You know it's a fair question." The pause that followed made Eric wonder if she knew that at all.

At last she said, "I understand why you feel that way. But she's been through a lot, Eric. She's the one who figured out how to use the Mueller device – we wouldn't have been able to create the cure without her and all that work she did." Sydney breathed out her frustration. "I can't imagine what it was like, carrying around that weight alone for twenty-five years. Just the few months I thought the cure depended on Sarah – -- just having that much responsibility -- that was so hard."

"Yeah, I remember. Your mother's a tough lady." That much tribute he could pay to Irina Derevko without hesitation.

"She made it through, all on her own." Sydney's gaze sought his, and he couldn't avoid the connection, not any longer. "I wouldn't have made it without you."

"You'd make it through anything," Eric said heavily. He knew where this was headed – a high-class brush-off. Well, fine. Maybe it would be good. Closure. "But I'm glad I helped."

Eric hated closure.

He let Sydney take his hand as she said, "Listen, Vaughn and I settled some things before you left. I didn't really get a chance to talk to you about it – but maybe that was for the best. I've had a few weeks to think, get my head together."

So she had her head together. Maybe someday she'd tell him just how she accomplished that, and he could try. Eric asked a rhetorical question: "You and Vaughn got things worked out?"

"We just faced up to what had happened to our relationship. We both love Sarah more than anything, and we're going to work together to raise her – but we can't rebuild what we lost." Sydney's lower lip trembled a little, but she was calm as she said, "It's over."

Every single word she'd spoken was in English, but Eric couldn't quite seem to make that last sentence make sense. "Over. As in –"

"As in, Vaughn and I aren't together, and we aren't going to be. He couldn't come back to me while he was still working through his problems, and I – I couldn't go back to him while I was still in love with you."

Eric couldn't say anything. He could think. He could only stare at Sydney. Could this be true?

No, it couldn't.

"You don't mean this." Eric half-jumped off the couch, angry at Sydney for letting him have even one more second of hope. "You guys had a fight or something, and you're talking to me just because –"

"Eric, NO." She looked like she might smack him one, and she was back in shape to deliver some serious smackage. "Don't you believe in how we feel about each other? At all?"

He thought about his answer; it was important to get this right. "I believe in how I feel about you. Sydney, I still love you. I don't think I'm ever not going to be in love with you."

"You just don't believe that I'm in love with you, too." She shook her head. "All that time – did you think I was only with you as some kind of substitute?"

"Isn't that what you thought?" His voice was harsher than he meant for it to be, but what the hell. This was the time for it. "Tell the truth, Syd."

"Honestly? Maybe, at first, I did," Sydney admitted. "But I was wrong. You never took Vaughn's place in my life, and he could never take yours."

"I'm not as sure as you are." When her cheeks flushed red – a sure sign of an impending temper flare – he quickly added, "Syd, I know you loved me. But I always knew you couldn't –" What were the right words? Finally Eric said, "You'd never choose me."

"Why wouldn't I choose you?" She asked it like it was a dumb question, instead of one that made perfect sense.

"Take your pick. The twenty extra pounds? The Dockers? The inability to have a serious conversation without joking around?" And, basically, just not being Vaughn. That was handicap number one.

"The defeatist attitude?" Sydney's hands were on her hips as she said it, but almost instantly, her posture softened, and she stepped closer. "What about the way you understand me? Or the way you always make me smile?"

"Syd –" He couldn't be hearing this. Couldn't be true.

She came yet closer, her voice getting softer. "Or the fact that you know when to take care of me and when to let me take care of myself?"

"I –"

"Or the way you make me crazy in bed? Or the fact that every single day we've been apart, I've wanted nothing more than just to talk to you?"

Her hands slipped around his shoulders, and Eric realized he was taking her in his arms too, though he couldn't quite believe it. Everything had gone surreal. "I've missed you too – so much – but –"

"I love you. I choose you." Her thumb stroked down the base of his neck, just where she knew he liked it. "What do I have to do to convince you?"

Many, many possible answers to that question were coming to mind. Eric went with the very first. "I tell you what. Kiss me and we'll take it from there."

Her mouth tilted slowly up to his. Sydney made him lead the way, opening her lips only as he coaxed her to, returning the brush of his tongue against hers but no more. Eric had never been the one setting the pace before. He felt powerful and yet helpless, confused and yet suddenly, entirely sure.

When they finally broke apart for breath, Sydney murmured, "Now do you believe me? Or is there something else I could do to – convince you?"

"Besides sticking around for the next forty years?" Nope, no better sound in the world than Sydney's laugh. As he bent down to kiss her again, he murmured, "We'll think of something."

She kissed him more deeply, more passionately, than she ever had in bed; Eric wasn't used to being able to hold her quite this tightly, without a kidlet in the way, but he planned on getting used to it, and soon. "Uh, Sydney? Are you – after the baby – I -- how are you feeling?"

Between kisses, she replied, "We can have sex."

"I was hoping you'd say that."

Sometimes you get a miracle, he thought, and the only thing to do is say thank you.

**

 

III.

 

**outside Vladivostok, Russia**

 

Aunt Katya's house had the look of a place much lived-in and much loved. Murals in a Russian folk style covered the stairwell (the work, Mama said, of one of Katya's lovers), and an old upright piano was almost shrouded in classical sheet music (the property of another of Katya's lovers, a group that had apparently always been generous in number.) The small kitchen held every kind of pot and pan and utensil, the sign of someone who loved cooking; the battered oak table was broad and surrounded by mismatched chairs, the sign of someone who loved eating – or, at least, loved dinner parties.

"I wish you could have met," Mama said, studying a black-and-white photo of a beautiful young woman who must have been her aunt. "She searched so hard for you, for so long. I wish she could've known we'd find you."

"And you aren't angry at her for – well, for Jack?" Nadia tried to tell herself she was interested in her mother's mind and how it worked – not how two sisters might love the same man and yet have a truce.

"Katya gave Jack and Sydney back to me; that makes up for everything else. Of course, if she'd lived, we would have had – words. And she would have fought for what she wanted." Her eyes flickered toward the garden behind the house. "Not everyone is as civilized as Mr. Vaughn."

Nadia glanced out the window to see Michael, who was still hacking away at the vines that had overgrown Katya's back fence. He and Mama said little to one another, save for chatting about Sarah after one of Sydney's daily calls; clearly the two of them were taking each other's measure. It made her wonder why Michael had agreed to make this part of the journey with them –

\--though, of course, she hoped that she already knew.

"Go to him," Mama said. "I need a few minutes."

Leaving her mother to commune with the spirit of her aunt, Nadia slipped into her coat and went out back. It had been autumn in Mozambique; here in Russia it was spring. The first green buds swelled out of tree branches. Even as Michael pulled away the dead vines from the fence, Nadia could see pale new tendrils beneath.

"Amazing view," Michael said as his greeting. He wasn't exaggerating; the house was near the top of the hills, looking down on the port city and the sea. Even this early in the season, the grass was rich and verdant, contrasting brilliantly with the water and the sky.

"I'm glad we came here," Nadia replied, then decided to tell the full truth. "I'm glad you came here."

He stopped working to walk to her side. "Nadia – I'm not – you know I'm not ready to start anything."

"Then why did you come with us?"

It took him a while to answer; it gave her time to study the line of his chin, the way the sunlight glinted in his hair, both gold and a little gray. She'd never really realized before that Michael was more than a decade older than her, but Nadia decided she liked that. Michael already bore his scars; she had seen the worst of him, and been able to endure it. Surely it would be worthwhile to find the best of him, too.

Finally, Michael said, "Because I wasn't ready to let you go."

"You're very confusing. I like that in a man."

Michael smiled. "Sydney's more of a Bristow, deep down. But you – you are definitely a Derevko."

"Do you like that in a woman?"

"Apparently so." He looked up at the sky as he shook his head. "God help me."

Someday, Nadia thought, a slow smile spreading across her face. Someday – soon.

She took his face in his hands and, before he could object, kissed him hard. Within only a moment, he was kissing her back, tongue pushing between her lips as his palm cradled the back of her head. Nadia could feel the cool breeze against her cheeks, the warmth of Michael's skin against hers, and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the best was yet to come.

When she ended the kiss, Michael said, breathless, "That was even better than last time."

"And you know what they say," Nadia called over her shoulder as she started back toward the house. "Third time's the charm."

She didn't wait for his reaction, just went inside. Mama turned out to be sitting at the piano, looking at long-faded love notes a besotted man had written to Katya beneath a key change by Beethoven. "Are you all right?" Nadia asked. "I hope coming here hasn't made you sad."

"Of course it's made me sad. But not only sad." Mama studied her. "You like it here, don't you?"

"I do." It was like the dwelling Sloane had provided for her, Nadia realized – except that it was old, where the beach house had been new. Sloane's house had been a mirage; this was real. A home. "I love it."

"I'm glad you said that," Mama said, with a smile. "I have a proposition."

"For me?"

"And, perhaps, for Vaughn."

**

IV.

 

**Los Angeles, California **

 

Irina had never actually been to Jack's house before – not this one, the one he'd bought a year after the departure of "Laura." She'd seen surveillance photos, of course, and watched small pulses of heat travel from kitchen to yard to bedroom on the display from an infrared satellite. As she drove, she found that she remembered all the intersections from maps as clearly as if she'd made the trip a hundred times.

But it was different, actually being there, knowing Jack was waiting for her.

He opened the door almost before the bell had ceased its chime. "You're early," he said. For Jack, this was as effusive as a welcome would be.

She shrugged as she came through the door and dropped her satchel. "I'm used to taking my time to get through security. Traveling freely – it's going to take some time to get used to."

"Astonishing thing about saving the world," Jack said, kissing her as he slipped off her jacket. "It tends to wipe your criminal record clean."

Irina unbuttoned his shirt, feeling the soft wisps of his chest hair against her fingers, while she kicked off one pump, then the other. "When your husband fights for you hard enough – yes, it does."

Jack untucked her shirt and pulled it above her head. The air was cool against her skin, though that wasn't why she shivered. "The drive wasn't bad?" he asked.

"Traffic was light." His belt buckle was heavy in her hand as she slipped the leather loose, then set to work on his trousers.

"That's odd," Jack murmured into her neck as he lowered her back onto the couch. "For a Saturday night. People must still be staying close to home."

"And no line at the car-rental place." Irina arched her back up as Jack tugged her bra away from her breasts, then gasped as his mouth closed over one nipple. "So that was convenient."

"Yes." Jack's hands slid beneath the hem of her skirt, against her thighs, pulling her pantyhose and underwear away. "Very convenient."

After Irina had been thoroughly welcomed, Jack fed her an orange. She licked a drop of juice from his thumb, then chewed the slice slowly, delighting in the cool taste of it. Jack just watched her, obviously taking his pleasure in her pleasure. She slipped his oxford-cloth shirt on, mostly to give him something to take off again later, and said, "When will I see my granddaughter?"

"I asked Sydney and Weiss to come by with her tomorrow for lunch." He peeled the next slice away from the soft cup of orange rind. "Is that early enough?"

"No time is early enough," Irina said. She'd been wild to see Sarah for weeks. "But given that I don't intend to let go of you until long after sunrise, lunch sounds about right."

The corner of his mouth lifted in a very small half-smile. "Not that I don't like the sound of that," Jack began, "but we don't have to make up for lost time in one night. We have all the time we need."

Irina could avoid the topic tonight, but that would serve no purpose, save to make Jack angrier when at last they did discuss it. "Jack. We should talk."

His eyes met hers, instantly comprehending. "You aren't coming back to Los Angeles."

"Not permanently. Not now." He should have anticipated this -- at least as a possibility. But he obviously hadn't; usually a master of self-control, Jack could not fully conceal his disappointment. Irina felt a deep wave of sympathy for him, but no guilt. "I have been constrained by Rambaldi's prophecies my whole life, even before I was born. Now I'm free. I've never been able to choose what I wanted. Now I can."

"And you don't choose -- this."

"You are a fool." Irina grabbed his shoulders and kissed him hard, forcing a response from him. But his gaze was still stony when she pulled away. "You know what you are to me. But what is it you think I should do? Teach literature again?"

She had envisioned it: sleeping always on the same side of the bed, making dinner on the evenings Jack got home late, chatting with the neighbors, trimming the hedges, remembering to buy the milk on the way home. Her decade as Laura had been the happiest of her life, lies, conventionality and all; this time, there would be no more lies. And for a week, maybe two, Irina thought it would be delightful. Even sublime.

In the third week she would kill Jack. Or herself. Possibly both.

"Your pardon is complete," Jack said. She could hear the plea in his voice, though he tried to disguise it, and it lanced her heart. "The LA field office is being rebuilt from the ground up. As an -- advisor, if not an agent --"

"I'll provide help if and when I can. And I will come to see you as often as possible, and ask you to do the same. But I have other obligations I must fulfill."

Though Jack's expression was still dark, Irina began to glimpse the first dawning comprehension. "You mean Nadia."

"I know I haven't given you or Sydney what you needed, much less what you deserved. But Nadia -- she's never had anything real, from me or from anyone. She needs to learn more about our world, to take shape as an adult. Sloane would have turned her into his weapon; she must become her own. I can teach her that. But I can't do that here."

"In Sydney's shadow." So Jack did understand at last. But when the anger left him, only his disappointment remained, and it was hard for her to see.

Irina gathered him close, combing her fingers through the dense curls of his hair. "Nadia needs me. I can't fail her again. You know that I would ask you to come --"

"Out of the question."

She smiled against his neck. "--but you'd never leave Sydney, especially not now, with Sarah here."

For a long time they simply held one another in silence. Someday, Irina wanted to say. Someday Nadia will be a Derevko in spirit instead of merely in blood, and I will make up for some small fraction of what she lost when she was stolen from me. I will repay Bill Vaughn's theft of my daughter by taking his son, though I will mold Michael into something far finer than his father could have imagined. I will have my child as she should have been and my justice without blood, and my work will be done. We will all know ourselves, and our places in the shifting world, and on that day I can come back to you forever.

But that would be a promise. Few of their promises had fared well, over the years. Best to simply wait and hope.

He said only, "I'd like to see you."

So like Jack, to ask for so little in a way that was the same as asking for everything. Irina began covering his face with kisses. "You will see me."

"More than see," Jack said, beginning to kiss his way down her neck. "I hope." It was foreplay now, which was as good an ending to the conversation as she could've hoped for.

She could make Jack one promise, give him a better gift than her body. Irina whispered the words that frightened her more than any others ever could, the ones she could only ever have spoken to Jack, and only now: "You will know me."

 

V.

 

Vaughn had expected either enthusiasm or fury from Sydney, not folded arms and a raised eyebrow. "Vladivostok?"

"Your mother's offered to – show me the ropes. Nadia and me."

"What ropes are these?"

"See, haven't you always wondered? How your mother does the stuff she does?" He said it as though he were teasing, though it was as serious as any other task Vaughn had ever undertaken. "I'd like to know."

Sydney sat down on the front steps of the house she now shared with Weiss. Vaughn had never been there before, and he still hadn't walked inside. Though he figured he needed to feel comfortable in his daughter's home, regardless of the situation with Sydney and Weiss, he found it easier talking to Sydney in the front yard. "You're right. Anything Mom has to teach, one of us ought to learn. It's just – you won't see Sarah very often, at least at first."

"Which I hate." Vaughn had very nearly said no to the entire project, on that basis alone. Despite the undeniable pull of an invitation to learn more about the inner world of espionage than he'd ever dreamed – not to mention the idea of staying in a room across the hallway from Nadia's – he hadn't been able to imagine putting anything before his daughter's welfare.

Then he'd asked himself what was really in his daughter's best interest.

Rambaldi's prophecies didn't end with the plagues; it was naïve to think that there would never be forces aligned against Sarah, or that none of Rambaldi's more insane followers had managed to survive the Rain of Gold. In other words, Sarah was beginning her life much as Sydney had begun hers: permanently at risk. This fact frightened Vaughn more deeply than he had known he could be afraid. Mortal terror, the surety of his own death, had nothing to compare with his fear for his child's safety.

Sydney had survived, become strong and remained safe. Half of that was because she'd had Jack Bristow watching over her every second like a hawk, as vigilant as he was ruthless; now Sydney would do that for Sarah. Vaughn knew that without even asking.

The other half was because Irina Derevko had been out there, living dangerously, fighting fire with fire – and willing to sacrifice her relationship with the two people she loved most in the world. Somebody had to play that role in Sarah's life. Looked like that somebody was going to be him.

Those were the reasons he could not tell Sydney. But there was one remaining reason, which he could reveal.

"Things are still – weird," Vaughn sighed. "You know it, I know it. Maybe it would be better for both of us, and Weiss too, if you guys got some time to get settled. Really make it a home, you know? I'll be back more often than you might think. And if I'm not around as much in the beginning, it might not be as – awkward."

"It's going to be awkward, no matter what." But Sydney seemed to accept his judgment, or at least his decision. "You're right, though. Some time might be good."

"Okay. Great." Vaughn tried to shake his sudden melancholy at seeing Sydney so obviously happy and settled with somebody else. "Where's the princess?"

"Getting her diaper changed. Go rescue Eric."

So he made his way through the house, trying not to quantify the furnishings (Eric's table, Sydney's couch) too much as he walked toward the back and the unmistakable sound of a very unhappy baby.

"I know, I know," Weiss said as Sarah wailed. "The little smiling baby on the Baby Wipes carton is a big fat liar, huh? Trust me, sweetness, cold wet stuff on the behind is no fun at any age. Almost done, almost done – "

Vaughn reached the doorway just as Weiss fastened up the diaper, Sarah hushed almost immediately. Now warm and dry, and thus instantly contented, she blinked up at Weiss as he finished snapping up her little yellow sleeper. "There you go," Weiss said, cleaning his hands. "All better now."

Weiss smiled down at Sarah, and Vaughn smiled at them, unseen. Even if he'd bitten off more than he could chew – and agreeing to join forces with Irina could definitely fall into that category -- he would never have to ask if his little girl lacked a daddy. Besides, it was kind of nice, seeing Weiss this punch-drunk happy.

"Nice work," Vaughn said.

"Oh, hey. There you are. Thanks." Weiss returned the smile. For the first time, Vaughn realized that they hadn't been alone together – not even for a minute – since the aftermath of Sark's attack in Mozambique. He hadn't known you could miss a friendship as much as a love affair. Maybe the friendship, at least, he could get back in time. "Somebody would probably like to see her daddy."

"Somebody's daddy would like to see her," Vaughn replied, taking her in his arms. How could she have gained so much weight already? Sarah's tiny fist closed around his finger, and despite all the awkwardness and confusion, Vaughn instantly knew that he was doing exactly what he needed to do.

After a couple of seconds, Weiss broke the reverie. "You and Syd – you guys talked?"

"Yeah. I've made some plans you ought to know about. Maybe we can talk later."

"Over dinner?" The words seemed unnaturally loud. Weiss groaned, then said, "If we can't all sit around a table for an hour, we're screwed. Let's order the pizza and do this thing, okay? If we don't think about it too much before, I bet we'll be fine."

"We will. Pizza sounds good." Then the words slipped out, beyond Vaughn's ability to control them: "If you ever hurt Sydney, I will hurt you."

"I know that." Instead of being offended, Weiss seemed to have been expecting this. "And I won't. Ever."

"I know. But I just had to – dammit." Vaughn breathed out. "If you were anybody else in the world, I couldn't take this."

"Vaughn, Syd would kill me if she could hear me, but I've gotta say it. If you want Sydney back – fuck, man, fight for her. Talk to her. I won't get in your way, or at least I'll fight fair. I love her, but I don't want to screw you over. Not ever. You know that, right?"

Vaughn studied Weiss' face. "You love Sydney. More than anything."

"Yeah."

"But you'd let her go if it would make her happy. And you'd let me try if it would make me happy." After a pause, Vaughn continued, his voice rougher, "That's why I can take this."

"We'll figure it out," Weiss said, and he sounded a little more certain than he had before.

"We will," Vaughn agreed, cuddling Sarah closer. If they all believed it, it might just become true. "Now, what was that about a pizza?"

**

 

VI.

 

"Sat Ops reports some unusual shipping activity out of Casablanca." Sydney punched a couple of keys to bring the images up on the main screen for her father's view. "Intel suggests K Directorate might've had a weapons cache there."

"Someone's not wasting any time consolidating power." Dad frowned up at the green and yellow lines of traffic on the map, as though he could will them away. "I suspect your mother didn't do us any favors when she told us to leave Sark alive."

"At least we know who we're up against." Sydney didn't know how comforting that was, really, given that they knew it was Sark. But after the Rain of Gold, other problems had a way of staying in perspective.

She was back at work, albeit only at headquarters for the time being. That was just fine with Sydney – how would she find a nursing bra that wouldn't show beneath a rubber dress, anyway? Soon, Eric would be back on missions again; the time off he'd earned during their months in Antarctica (which counted as duty) was coming to an end. Given the shortage of agents – the L.A. field office had started over with a skeleton crew – they'd taken too much time already.

The operations center was mostly empty; only the essential staff had been replaced. But Sydney felt as though the room were crowded with ghosts: Carrie, and Dixon, and Judy Barnett. She hoped that eventually she could come to think of them as helpful spirits – that their courage in the face of death would inspire her. For the time being, even her happiness was shadowed by mourning.

Dad sat at the keyboard near her, calling up some information, perhaps on a hunch. Sydney found herself noticing the lines around his eyes, the drape of his neck; he was getting older. Not yet old, maybe – but nobody would be at all surprised to know he was a grandfather. At least not anybody who didn't know him very well.

At Wittenburg – when she had learned only enough of the truth to be angry and frightened, not enough to understand – Sydney had seen her father's age and reveled in it; she had been glad to think of him getting older, becoming weaker, dying. Now the thought stabbed at her, painful and strong. She didn't like the idea of a world without her father in it.

But if they had wanted to live forever, they could have given in to the Rain of Gold, taken their chances. Immortality would have been cold and unchanging – a kind of stasis, in which old grudges and hurts could last forever, scarring and defining them until the end of time.

Instead, they were mortal, ever-changing and able to know it. That, Sydney thought, was probably the greatest gift of all. Maybe you had to be mortal in order to forgive.

"Hey," she said, laying her hand on his shoulder. Dad looked up, obviously pleasantly surprised by the gesture. "Why don't you come by for dinner tonight? You can see Sarah in the little Chinese coat Vaughn sent."

"Again? So soon?" He'd been over night before last.

"Are we boring you already?" she teased.

This won her a patented Jack Bristow half-smile. "I don't want to be in the way."

Sydney patted his shoulder once. "If you were in the way, I wouldn't ask. You're not. So come over."

"We should ask Nadia along," Dad said, almost managing to sound like he meant it. He really was trying, Sydney thought, though she knew he'd be glad when her sister followed Mom and Vaughn to Russia. "Make a night of it."

"It's just a hunch, but I think Nadia might want some time alone this evening."

Dad glanced up at her. "You mean – the meeting is today."

Sydney nodded. "Right now."

 

VII.

 

Sloane stared down at the lab reports, unable to believe the miracle before his eyes. "You aren't lying, are you? Not this time."

"No," Nadia said. She stood outside the bars, beyond his grasp. "Not this time."

"You truly are my daughter." He'd known this, deep in his heart of hearts, hadn't he? Why had he ever let Judy Barnett make him doubt it? Never had Sloane imagined that the woman would know so well how to aim her knife; the burn of rage he felt toward Judy had a tinge of the erotic, a kind of admiration he could not control. They really might have had something together, in a reality other than this.

"I am your daughter." Nadia confirmed this in a voice that was clear and calm. She looked so different – angular, where she had begun to soften, and hard, where she had begun to seem girlish. Yes, there was a kind of light in her eyes, a freedom in her movements, but Sloane didn't trust it. He knew her mother had her claws in Nadia now, and at present there was very little he could do about it.

"Thank you," he said. "For telling me. Nothing you could have said would have given me deeper joy."

"I didn't do it for you. I did it because we've all been surrounded by lies for too long. Mama, Michael, Sydney, Jack – everyone."

If Nadia was his daughter, then the connection was still there. She could know Rambaldi's thoughts as nobody else on earth could; eventually she would have to talk about them to someone. Sloane wondered if it would be possible for him to listen. Rambaldi's prophecies weren't finished. Even though the splendor of the Rain of Gold had not come to pass, there was still so much more to discover. All he wanted was the chance to discover it. Was that too much for an old man's hopes? "You know they've sentenced me to death."

"Yes." Nadia's eyes dropped to the floor. "I have a message on that subject from Jack Bristow. He said to tell you that – you've shared your last bottle of wine. I don't know exactly what that means, but he said you would."

"Yes, I do." Salvation would have to come from another source. Was it impossible to hope that his daughter might provide that rescue? All those months they'd spent together – surely that time hadn't been for nothing. "I don't deny that I've broken their laws. But I do deny that this is justice. I have work to do – work we could do together – that would eclipse all the wrongs they have ever piled at my feet."

"Back when I thought of you as my Papa – I would have moved heaven and earth to rescue you. And I could have." Nadia shook her head. "You showed me what you meant by a father's love in Mozambique. After that, I will never think of you as my father again. That is the last truth I have to tell you."

She turned to leave, her footsteps on the concrete terrible in their finality. Sloane clutched the bars and called to her. "I showed you a father's love in Mexico. How can you condemn me for the lies told by others to trap me?"

"That's not what I condemn you for," she said, without turning around.

"All I need to know is that someday, you'll be willing to look at me as the man I really am." Surely Nadia could see that. Surely she would. "Ask yourself this, Nadia: How long can it be before you think of me as your father again?"

Nadia stopped at the doorway, looking back over her shoulder. She spoke only one word: "Eternity."

 

THE END

REALLY


End file.
